Grave New World (Book 3): Dead Men Don't Skip

by S. P. Blackmore

  “Dead already,” she said. But her cold fingers brushed mine.

  In that moment, I dearly regretted pretty much everything I had ever done in my life, up to and including surviving the initial apocalypse, because damn if I wasn’t absolute crap at all this.

  “Go be badass,” she said.

  I pulled away, moved hastily toward the medical complex.

  Renati was waiting for me in his lab, two backpacks open and medical apparatuses scattered around the room. “How is she?” he asked. He hadn’t elected to come with me, stating he’d already looked at Alyssa this morning and had nothing left to learn from her.

  I think she made him uncomfortable.

  “Talking,” I said. “She seems to be better? Will she keep improving until she’s…you know…”

  “More lifelike?” He shrugged. “I guess we’ll have to see when we get back.” He meant if we get back, but of course he wasn’t about to say that out loud. “Now, moving on to the more important matters.” He gestured around the room, looking at its cluttered contents somewhat balefully. I don’t really know what to find for us. Gauze…bandages…painkillers…”

  He was still thinking about helping people. How quaint.

  “Scalpel?” I asked. “Needle?” I made stabbing gestures. “You know. For…that thing.”

  “Yes…yes, of course.” He fumbled through several drawers, the devices inside clattering loudly. I watched him for a moment, trying to envision this slightly awkward, classics-spouting soul pulling off what was basically an assassination. I hope Logan’s a good shot. We don’t stand a chance of stabbing anyone.

  Renati paused at another drawer, then pulled out several bottles of pills and stuffed them into his pack.

  “More painkillers?” I asked.

  “Something else,” he said.

  “Hemlock?”

  His bushy brows lifted, and the faintest hint of a smile smoothed his face. Despite our present situation, his smile put me more at ease than whatever happened to Alyssa’s features when she tried to convey emotion. “Hemlock. You’re a traditionalist, Vibeke. I like that. This is just…a backup.”

  So he was bringing either poison or a sedative. How, exactly, we were supposed to get people to swallow pills while there was presumably crazy shit like gladiator battles and assassinations going down around them remained to be seen, but hell. I was willing to go along with it.

  Most medical instruments can hurt you if you get creative with them. Tongue depressors can go into an eye or up a nose. I don’t need to elaborate on what a scalpel can do. But in truth, everything he was loading us up with seemed sad and flimsy. Keller and his friends had guns. They were professional soldiers who would probably knock us all down in a handful of seconds, if that.

  Really, who the hell did I think I was? What the hell was I doing? Taking on a fucking dictatorship with nothing but a first aid kit, a researcher, and one grieving sharpshooter?

  This was way out of my wheelhouse.

  There must have been a way around it. I had talked my way into concerts—why couldn’t I talk my way to Keller, and maybe plead for mercy? I could try to sneak into his quarters to reason with him—great idea, Vibs, give him additional reason to skewer you—or I could…what, exactly?

  Find another radio?

  Run out of the city and find my way back to Hammond on foot?

  Do nothing?

  There was no other way. Not with the time we had.

  I had to do something.

  Yes, it was way above my pay grade, but so was everything else that had gone down so far. If I did nothing, Tony and Dax would surely wind up dead.

  And that—that I couldn’t think about.

  “Are we set?” I asked, my voice thin.

  “Go change,” Renati said. “Take your backpack. I’ll meet you at the arena at noon.”

  What do you do before staging a coup and walking into your own death?

  That was the sort of question I never contemplated before.

  I took the dog for a walk. I cleaned up the mess she’d left in the corner while we were locked up. I brushed her for a good twenty minutes, using a brush tucked away in the downstairs bathroom. It still had long brown hairs in it; relics of some previous owner, long gone.

  I didn’t dwell on it.

  When I finished up with her, Evie looked ravishing. Well, as ravishing as a dog can look. She placed a paw in my lap when I stopped, her soft brown eyes seemingly boring into my soul.

  “Damn if you don’t seem more human than poor Alyssa right now,” I said. “Am I going to hell for saying that?”

  Her tail thumped on the floor. Maybe it was an affirmation (Yes, Vibby, you’re going to hell) or maybe she just felt I needed some reassurance.

  I had never spent this much quality time with her, but damn if I couldn’t see what Dax and other dog people were raving about. She really did seem to know I was upset.

  Holy shit, who was going to take care of her if things went badly? My hand froze while petting her. I also couldn’t just cut her loose; she’d follow me to the park and make a mess of things.

  I would have to leave her in the house.

  I took a deep breath and looked around.

  Tony had left his belongings scattered all over the living room. I dug through his stuff in search of our neighbor’s little pistol, but I couldn’t find the damned thing; he’d either hidden it away or simply taken it with him. I did come across his much-loved copy of Dead Mennonite Walking, which he had probably hadn’t finished yet.

  I plunked it down next to the The Iliad—Renati had sent me home with the version we had all sworn over as some weird token of our conspiracy, I guess. I had tried to read it the night before. Tried being the key word. Why didn’t I have gods helping me with everyday tasks? It’d make life a lot easier.

  “Renati uses his books for inspiration,” I said to Evie. “I don’t have any Shakespeare and I’m just not feeling Achilles. The second shit goes south with Agamemnon he goes and whines to his mother.”

  Not that I could really blame him. If my mother had been around when all this went down, you can bet I would have gone crying to her about my various zombie encounters. I could only imagine what sort of advice she’d have given me before this particular situation. Some variant of Murder isn’t nice, dear, I’m sure.

  I picked up Dead Mennonite Walking and flipped it open to a random page. “Maybe Zeke can give me a hand.”

  Thrash Johnson beheld the fiery column of death reaching into the heavens. “Lo, Zeke, behold the tower of flames!”

  I lowered the book. I didn’t have a tower of flames, and I wasn’t about to say behold to anyone.

  I went to the next page, skimming over its contents. Ezekiel and his companions faced a seemingly insurmountable foe: a wall of zombies coming at them, attracted to the tower of flames. Within a few short moments, it might all be over.

  If we must part in this unhappy manner, Ezekiel said to Thrash and the rest of his scrappy group, then I am most pleased that I end my days here, in these blood-soaked fields of ill-begotten corn, with thee, my most questionable companions.

  Briefly, I wondered how one obtained ill-begotten corn. He’d had a run-in with a demonic sack of barley earlier in the book, but corn?

  For truly I cannot imagine facing this world or the one beyond without you. And now, by Ezekiel’s Scythe, let us do battle!

  “What better way to go,” I said aloud to the dog, “than in the presence of such questionable companions? And did he just refer to his own weapon in the third person?”

  It was as ardent a declaration of friendship as Ezekiel had ever made.

  I tossed the book aside. “Fine, I get it,” I said. “Worse things to do than die for your friends. Or fight for them. Or at least get maimed for them.”

  Man, I hoped I didn’t get maimed.

  Evie wagged her tail, then shoved her head into my lap.

  I gave her ears a last rub, gathered up my belongings, and made one l
ast scan of the house.

  Nothing.

  I locked the front door and took myself next door.

  Our neighbor opened his door before I had finished knocking. He stared at me, the whites around his eyes showing clearly. He thought I had come here to kill him or something.

  I held out the house key. He leaped backwards, clearly expecting me to brain him with it.

  “Hey,” I said.

  When he realized I was not about to kill the shit out of him with a house key, he edged closer.

  “I’m sorry about all the noise. And, um, the death threat.” I paused, letting him absorb the statement. “It’s been a shitty few weeks.”

  “You don’t say,” he murmured.

  “But I have to go to the park to help the doctor and I’ll be gone all day. Can you let the dog out? She’s really nice. Golden retriever. I may be an asshole, but she’s not.”

  He stared at me, as if not entirely believing I wasn’t actively trying to cut his throat.

  “Please?” I asked.

  Hesitantly, he stretched out his fingers and took the key.

  “Thanks,” I said. “And your gun is gone, so don’t bother looking for it.”

  I smiled at him, and then hustled down the front steps to the street, hoping I didn’t look like I was heading into battle.

  “Good afternoon, plebeians! It is a beautiful day to fear death!”

  Holy shit, they’d invested in an announcer. His voice boomed out through speakers arranged around the stadium, which was already at least eighty percent full. I judged five or six thousand people were in attendance, though not all of them looked thrilled to be there.

  Keller had spared no expense with his Execution Extravaganza. Colorful banners were tacked to every available space, advertising defunct pizza places and other pre-apocalyptic good times. He even had people selling crap in the stands; Renati and I, sequestered safely in a row just a few feet away from the old home team dugout, watched as peanuts and popcorn were distributed. No hot dogs, of course. They probably wouldn’t have mixed well with all the pastrami.

  All of the medical crews were expected to go dashing into the makeshift arena at a moment’s notice. Which meant, in theory, we were going to have an awesome view of the actual bloodshed once it started.

  “Where’s Logan gonna be?” I asked, scanning the stands opposite us.

  Renati shrugged. “Wherever he can find a spot.”

  Well, I was glad we’d put enough thought into our little scheme.

  “He’ll find a spot. Don’t worry.”

  “Worried? Who’s worried? And…what the hell are we supposed to before we…you know?”

  “We’re only to go in for treatable injuries.”

  “What does that even—”

  “Oh, come now, Vibeke. If a man gets his throat torn out there’s not much we can do about it anyway.”

  So we were supposed to watch people bleed out? This event sounded more enjoyable by the moment.

  The announce droned on, outlining the specifics of our upcoming glorious day. “And I’d like to remind you all that should you at any time feel the need to vomit, please aim for the bag.”

  I twisted around to look at Renati. “We have bags?”

  He pointed to the seat in front of us. The type of barf bag they used to put on airplanes had been crudely taped to it.

  How nice. Keller’s party planner really did think of everything.

  Our little assassination effort felt woefully under-equipped. I should have had a knife at least; better yet, a pistol, or one of the many, many guns the soldiers toted around. But the rules of the arena were apparently thus: You bring in weapons, you fight. Those who didn’t want to actually channel their inner Spartacus were to be strictly unarmed.

  I nudged Renati. Keller and his retinue were climbing to their seats. He had put on a fair approximation of a dress uniform, though his had some interesting gold touches I hadn’t seen on other military outfits. Renati frowned, his gaze tracking the group of men across the stands. “Setting himself up to be king,” he murmured. “Just as I thought.”

  “Fucker,” I said.

  “Just look at this crowd!” the announcer crowed. “We’ll be bathing in blood together!”

  “Can we get the announcer, too?” I asked. “He sounds like a jerk.”

  Renati stared out into the stadium, perhaps running through Shakespearian couplets in his head. “If time allows.”

  “We’re nearly at capacity,” the announcer informed us. His voice was pretty decent, at least; I was willing to bet he’d at least been on radio before all this went down. “There’s thousands of people who couldn’t get in to see this, my friends. Count yourselves lucky—the lines are wrapping around the block!”

  I hadn’t seen huge lines of people waiting to get in, but then again, I’d been quite preoccupied with my own business when I was waved through. For all I knew, the entire city had gone bloodthirsty.

  “Are you ready to enjoy our first-ever Super Saturday?” the announcer crowed.

  “Sounds like a sale at a discount store,” I said.

  “Shh.”

  “We’ve got some outstanding shows for you today. Strength will be tested! Wills will be bent! Who will be the victor?”

  For fuck’s sake, someone needs to write this guy better lines.

  “Come on then! I know you’re here to see the good stuff. But first, a word from the captain.”

  Keller had made his way over to the announcer’s box, and he held the microphone somewhat awkwardly, as if he’d never seen one before. The crowd immediately grew hushed; save a few whisper of “that’s him!” and “he’s so young,” all had fallen largely silent.

  Holy hell, even the people didn’t know Keller? How had that worked out? Everyone seemed to know Durkee.

  Did Keller simply sequester himself away from the regular folks?

  “Hello, my friends,” Keller said. His voice sounded thin on the mic. He must have noticed it; he dropped his tone, somehow succeeding in sounding older and larger than he was. “We’re here today…I am deeply honored to welcome you to the first of our…Deep Cleanses”

  I frowned. “Sounds like he’s going to give us colonics.”

  “Vibeke, shut up.”

  I stopped talking, but I was pretty sure Renati could still hear me grinding my teeth.

  “…I won’t linger here too long. It is my hope that you all enjoy yourselves, and perhaps consider enlisting. We always need more assistance against those who would tear this city to pieces.”

  Where was Logan? Maybe he could start shooting early and spare us all a tirade.

  Even from a distance, I could see a grin stretching across Keller’s face. “Let the games begin!”

  At least he hadn’t said let the bloodbath begin, which was really more fitting, considering the circumstances.

  The crowd cheered, as was their duty.

  The door to the visiting team’s dugout opened, and the first of the day’s great events kicked off.

  A pack of zombies came lurching out.

  Oh, goodie. Getting right to juicy stuff, so to speak.

  They weren’t the intelligent ones I’d been dreading since hearing Durkee’s sob story. No, these were your everyday shamblers, plucked from the streets and thrown into combat. They moved around sluggishly, confused by the shouts and screams in the stands and pawing uselessly at the far-off faces they so desperately wanted to devour.

  They stumbled about, all of them traipsing off in different directions, each of them fixated on something.

  If this was the main event, the thousands of attendees were in for a snooze. These zombies probably weren’t going to start fighting each other.

  Then I spotted motion from the home team’s dugout.

  Oh. Oh. Keller was throwing a good show after all. Four human fighters came out. I leaned forward, but none of them looked familiar. It made sense; Keller would save up the important special guests for later on.

 
For scarier zombies.

  Most of the ghouls, pleased to spot a potential snack, converged on the humans. The lone exception was a man clad in a blood-splattered blue sweater, who meandered over to a portion of the stands located somewhat lower than the rest. The VIP section, I supposed. I don’t know whether he thought he could actually get at anyone there, or if they just looked that much tastier, but he flailed about, stretching over the railing. A group of high school-aged kids and a couple soldiers leaned out of the way, but didn’t scramble up to the next row of seats or anything. It wasn’t like the revenant could actually climb to them.

  Meanwhile, the humans in the arena started the age-old Avoid the Zombie Dance, and I realized something must have gone terribly wrong already.

  I grabbed Renati’s arm. “Why don’t they have weapons?”

  Renati shook his head.

  What the fuck? Even if the zombie apocalypse started while you were snug in bed, you still had something to fight with. A clock radio. A cell phone. A pillow. Something you could use as a weapon or a shield.

  Not these guys. They just had fists, speed, and their wits.

  That last element was obviously severely lacking, because a girl got chomped almost immediately.

  She had punched a ghoul, then stood still looking pleased with herself just long enough for another to march up behind her and sample the goods. Her scream briefly silenced the cheers reverberating through the stadium—yeah, assholes, watching someone die really does suck—then seemed to galvanize the rest of the human fighters. They stepped it up, checking around themselves, calling out to one another. Two even stood back to back, just inviting the ghouls to come toward them.

  I stood up, only to be yanked back down by Renati. “We can’t help her,” he said. He was barely even watching the fight—instead, he stared at the lone ghoul still trying to get at the teenagers. One of them had come forward, and was sticking a sneakered foot in and out of the revenant’s reach.

  “Madness,” Renati mumbled, though I wasn’t sure which part of the current fuckery he was referring to.

  The zombies got someone else. The crowd booed as he went down, his yells turning into gurgles.

  My stomach gurgled in return. How the fuck was I supposed to stand here and do nothing while people were being brutally murdered for sport?