“Well, you two?” she asked. The Civilian grumbled and got down on his knees.
FULL UP—NO REFUGEES
No food, no water, no drugs, no money,
NO TRESPASSING NO SOLICITATION
Sorry, we’re closed!
[Painted on the front entrance of a DiscountDen superstore in Springfield, MO, 4/11/05]
As she wriggled through the gap below a chainlink fence on the edge of a golf course a sharp point of steel stuck into Nilla’s back. She felt her shirt tear, then her flesh. She grimaced—there was little pain, but she knew the wound would look terrible and she needed to pass for human. At the very least she would need a new shirt.
Nothing for it. She squirmed in the dirt and crawled through, onto immaculate bluegrass. She kept low and moved quickly across the green, knowing that if she was caught she would be slaughtered on sight. She was halfway to the clubhouse when a barking dog made her jump in her skin.
“Shut up!” someone yelled. “Shut up already! What the fuck’s the matter with you?” The voice came from just over a low rise in the course. Nilla dropped to the grass on her stomach and stopped breathing. The dog appeared on top of the rise, ears flicked back, nose sniffing at the air. A German shepherd, straining on its leash. She quieted herself as Mael had taught her and banked the fuming darkness of her energy. It was getting so much easier, and she could hold the darkness down for longer and longer periods of time. There. She was invisible. The dog pawed at the ground and whimpered for a moment, then kept right on barking.
Damn. It could smell her. She imagined sinking her teeth into the dog’s neck. How good it would feel. The animal’s golden life glared in the darkness and she wondered if it was thinking exactly the same thing.
“There’s nothing there, facewhore,” the dog’s handler said. A teenaged boy in a brown baseball cap and a tan windbreaker. He had his collar up to keep out the night’s chill and a lit cigarette dangled from his fingers. “See? Nothing. Now shut the fuck up!”
The boy yanked at the dog’s chain, viciously. The dog howled in pain but at least it stopped barking. Boy and dog both disappeared behind the rise again and Nilla let go of the death grip on her energy, sinking back into visibility.
In another minute she was at the front entrance of the golf course and she crossed the road with an unbearable feeling that she was being watched, that at any moment the boy would look over and see her running across the deserted blacktop. Her luck held out and she made it to the shadowy side of a house.
She was in. Excitement thrilled through her—or it could have been fear. She crept to edge of the shadow and looked out and down the length of a razor-straight road that intersected the famous Las Vegas Strip. The neon lights were still on. They filled the air around them with an incandescent haze, turning the night into well, not day, but something more like day than it was like night.
Rrright.
Fear. It was fear—it did nothing for her imagination.
Mael had a task for Nilla and she knew the penalty for refusing him now. There were rumors going around that Las Vegas possessed a vaccine against the Epidemic. Certainly the city had fared better than Denver or Sacramento or Salt Lake City. It was still full of the living, for one thing. Someone had to go into the city and find out what was happening. The armless dead man that Mael called Dick couldn’t perform this task. He lacked the necessary humanlike appearance. Mael couldn’t do it himself because he was merely a psychic projection and had no physical form in Nevada. Nilla had both of those things.
She didn’t dare disappoint him again. For hanging out with the kids in the Toyota, she’d been made to pay. Jason Singletary had died because she had disobeyed Mael Mag Och. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.
She looked down the street again, this time looking at the shadows. All the places she could hide in the midnight hour. She saw a doorway that had her name written all over it and she stepped into the moonlight, ready to hurry across the street as quickly as she was able. She got about three steps before she heard the dog whimper in pain again. She caught a flash of golden energy out of the corner of her mind’s eye and whirled to face whatever had stalked her.
“Excuse me. Excuse me, Miss!”
The teenaged boy stood not ten yards away, one hand barely holding the dog down from jumping on Nilla and tearing her face off.
Nilla froze. Jagged spikes of violence and the possibility of violence tore through her brain.
“It’s after curfew, Miss. Do you have ID? A driver’s license or something?”
Nilla turned slowly, a big, warm smile on her face. “I guess I left them in my other pants,” she said, shrugging helplessly. Act stupid, she thought. Not very difficult—she’d just completely blown her cover. She could fairly complain that she had no training in covert operations. “I’m just on my way home now, I promise.”
The boy moved to stand a few feet away and frowned sympathetically. “Look, Miss, you’re obviously not dead, I mean they don’t talk and all. I still have to see some ID, though. It’s that or I lose this job.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want that,” Nilla said. She stepped closer to him.
Ice filled up her body, ice cubes sloshing around inside of her like a cooler at the end of a long beach party. She felt her skin might just fall off, she was shivering so much. She stared deep into his eyes and saw that playing sexy wouldn’t get her out of this one. He had a gun, and the dog, and he was going to kill her in a second when he realized his mistake. He was going to see her dead energy and make the connection.
He was only a foot and a half away. She could make out every pimple on his face, she could see the pulse beating in his jugular vein. He was exactly the same height as her, she realized. She reached up and knocked his hat off, into the street.
“What the fuck did you do that for, you stupid bitch?” he demanded as he bent to retrieve it.
“I didn’t want to get blood on it,” she said, and grabbed him around the neck.
Chapter Thirteen
From: BIGSkyPILOT (Moderator)
Re: Tips for Keeping Water Clean and Potable
There’s so much government spam now, isn’t anybody real still posting? I’ve only got power two hours a day now but I’ll keep the server running on generator as long as I can.
[Forum post from www.bigskypilot.net, 4/11/05]
“That woman is a lunatic,” Clark announced, between panting breaths.
The Civilian had recovered from the lethargy that had possessed him earlier and was leading his wonk through the crowded streets of Washington. His stated intention was to buy Clark dinner at “a really amazing titty bar I know just around the corner” where apparently the Russian waitresses barely spoke English and didn’t yet know you weren’t allowed to touch them. Clark was looking for a way to gracefully bow out but in the meantime he had to hurry to keep up with the Civilian’s long strides. Compared to the (erstwhile) laid-back streets of Denver, everyone seemed in a hurry in Washington.
“Oh, she’s nuttier than the combined scrotums of the Boston Red Sox. She’s also a close personal friend of the Second Lady. The Veep loves Purslane Dunnstreet and when the Veep loves somebody the SecDef loves them too, and as for me, well, I love everybody. It’s less of a timesuck than hating them. Come on, last one there buys the lap dances.”
Clark redoubled his pace and followed the Civilian into a dark, smoke-free den of booming techno music and strobing lights. A skeletal woman in a tight dress printed with hammers and sickles handed Clark a plastic martini glass. “O, Kapitan, my Kapitan,” she sighed, and dug her fingers inside Clark’s uniform shirt to touch his solar plexus.
While he stood there stunned the Civilian crammed in between the two of them. “You’re wasting your time, sweetheart. He’d rather be cleaning his own weapon, if you know what I mean.” He lead Clark to a bar at the back of the room where a number of suited men sat deep in conversation. A woman wearing nothing but panties and a Russian fur hat swayed back and forth li
stlessly over their heads.
“I assure you, the plan we just heard will fail,” Clark shouted over the music. The Civilian waved a finger at the bartender. “I’ve seen how these things fight. I’ve shot them myself. This woman’s ideas are useless to us.”
“Harsh words, Clark, from the great hero of Denver. You proved it’s possible to prevail against the dead, didn’t you? Not one man lost. You should be more proud of your accomplishments.”
The lights in the strip club dazzled Clark. He looked at the martini glass in his hand—it was dry.
“You’re supposed to fill it up at the bar and bring it back to her. That means you want to take her upstairs to the Martini Room.”
Clark set it carefully on the bar, out of the way of the dancer. He suddenly and pangfully missed the Brown Palace’s restaurant, with its nineteenth century decorum and its perfect slabs of beef. Gone now, most likely forever. With the rest of Denver.
“If anything,” he said, quite careful with his word choice, “I proved that it is possible for the most heavily-armed, best-trained veteran warfighters in the world to survive in the midst of these things, and that’s assuming they can bug out when things get too hot.”
The Civilian scowled at him, a cold, reptilian look that made Clark’s skin feel filthy. Clark had the sudden and repugnant thought that he was finally seeing the Civilian’s true face, the one behind the epoxied-on smile. It was horrible to behold. “You’re talking as if there were an alternative.”
“There must be! Anything would be better than that Dunnstreet’s suicidal plan!”
The Civilian gestured for a woman wearing a Soviet tank commander’s soft helmet to come and sit next to him. She pulled her dress up over her head and he leaned into her breasts, inhaling long and hard. “Nobody else has ever thought it through. I’m serious. No policy group, no strategic envisioning team, nobody at the Pentagon or West Point or OpFor or anywhere else has ever bothered to sit down and figure out realistically how to fight a war on American soil. It has always been unthinkable.”
“Nobody?”
The Civilian gulped at neat vodka while he answered. He seemed almost desperate to get as much alcohol into his system as humanly possible. “There have been wargame scenarios published, where Canada invades New York State, say, or France attacks with nuclear weapons. It’s all Dungeons and Dragons shit and meanwhile Purslane Dunnstreet was toiling in solitude, waiting for the big day, making the right friends, playing the game. Bannerman, sometimes you have to drink the Kool-Aid. You’ve just heard what we have planned, and you're one of us. Listen, I gotta go piss away all the Red Bulls I drank this morning. Keep the girls warm for me, will you?”
The Civilian got up and pushed his way through the crowd. Clark ordered a scotch and soda from the bar and sipped it in morose quietude. He studied the crowd disinterestedly with his eyes—he’d never been in a strip club before and he was only mildly curious as to what sort of person patronized them. Studying the customers was less embarrassing than looking at the staff, though. The sight of so much naked flesh made Clark blush.
He was not the only uniformed officer in the club, nor was he the highest ranking, but the vast majority of the men wore the black suits of career civil servants. He recognized several, or thought he did—he couldn’t see clearly more than a few dozen feet.
Clark managed somehow to be surprised when a young woman dressed like a Colonial era town cryer walked into the club ringing an enormous handbell. She had a clipboard under one arm and she read from it without much enthusiasm as she rang her bell. “Hear ye, hear ye, good people, it’s time to get your bets in. All bets must be placed by midnight tonight. Today’s deadpool is for Cleveland, Ohio. Double your money if Cleveland is overrun before midnight tonight! Hear ye, hear ye!”
Clark had blushed before. Now he blanched. He put his drink down on the bar and shoved through the patrons, needing to get out into the clean air. A completely naked woman with a red star tattooed on either of her nipples grabbed him around the waist but he wriggled free.
As he bumped past the reveling wonks of Washington he finally looked a few of them in the eyes and he realized what was going on. These people weren’t just jaded cynics willing to sacrifice the country for their own self-interest. They were suffering from threat fatigue, just as they had after September Eleventh. Too much horror that required your full attention, all of the time. Too much demand on one’s sense of gravitas and it broke, snapped, fell to pieces.
That wasn’t a good enough excuse, he decided. They needed to regain their composure and get back to work. But he wasn’t the one to tell them as much.
Out in the evening air he breathed deeply and stared up at where the stars would be if they weren’t obscured by the light haze of the Capital.
The Civilian spilled out of the door behind him, a dewy can of beer in his hand.
“There’s so little time left—did you hear? Cleveland is about to fall,” Clark told him, his hands tight fists in his pockets. “I have no doubt the Epidemic has already spread to Asia, across the Pacific. It will be in Europe soon enough and then it will have covered the entire globe.”
“A very wise man said something to me once. ‘Laddy,’ he said, ‘time’s only valuable to them that are counting it.’ I guess that means the dead don’t need watches. This is it, Bannerman, the big D, the big A maybe.”
Clark shook off the idea. “There’s a girl out there somewhere. In California, maybe, though I imagine she probably got out in time. She’s dead, but she can talk.”
The Civilian popped open his can with a noise halfway between a fart and a gunshot.
Clark went on. “Denver was lost because the dead somehow managed to organize their behavior enough to get over a ten-foot fence. Disease spread through the relocation camps far more quickly than any of our models can account for. There’s a deeper game at work here than we think.”
“And you can win it? I’m truly sorry,” the Civilian said, pausing to hiccup, “if you feel like you’re being shorted here. But tell me, how much should I trust a by-the-numbers Captain of the Guard who comes busting in here telling me that he and he alone can save the world? Come on, walk a mile in my shoes. Hmm.” He looked down. “I could use a shine, actually. Get ‘em shined while you’re walking in them, willya?” He giggled and nearly choked on another hiccup. “Seriously. I can't just authorize you to go bomb the hell out of the Rocky Mountains without some kind of justification. How am I supposed to sell this thing?”
“Well,” Clark said, feeling his heart pound in his chest, “I am the Hero of Denver.”
“George Fucking Washington’s ghost! I thought you’d never get the hang of this.” The Civilian held his beer out toward Clark in salute. “Oh, and I’m coming with you.” He smirked when he saw the look that brought to Clark’s face. “You think—hic—I want to stick around here and wait for Purslane to lose us this city, too?”
Chapter Fourteen
SOS DAUGHTER SICK HELP ANYBODY
[Message mowed into a field of corn in Iowa, 4/12/05]
It had happened so quickly, Nilla hadn’t really thought it through. Blood was everywhere. It had pooled beneath the boy, ruining his clothes. He stirred with a spasmodic movement beneath her and she felt his dark energy like an ice pack pressed against her flesh. Nilla recalled waking up in a puddle of her own blood. Not so long ago.
Behind her the dog barked up a cacophony of irritation. She wanted to enjoy the feeling the boy’s energy gave her, the feeling like she was alive again. The dog wouldn’t let her do that. She reached for its collar, intending to shut it up, and stopped herself.
Mael might own most of her soul, she decided, but not all of it. The dog had done nothing to hurt her. She wouldn’t kill it just for being annoying.
Still. The damned dog wouldn’t stop barking. Someone would come looking to find out what was going on.
She got up and she moved, taking the boy’s brown baseball cap with her. She thought it would shade
her eyes and help hide her face. She moved quickly, almost running—faster than she’d been, more nimble than since the day she died. The boy’s life energy thrummed through her, his gold coursing down the wires of her nerves. She stuck to the shadows, trying to look inconspicuous whenever she passed through a patch of streetlight.
Behind her in the darkness the dog stopped barking. She heard gunshots—the boy. They had found the boy she’d eaten, what was left of him, and put him down like a rabid animal. She only hoped no one had recognized him before they started shooting.
She felt an irrational urge to go back and check. Stupid, she knew. She kept moving, though she spared a glance over her shoulder to see if anyone was pursuing her. Nothing there but dim shadows and the watery reflections of streetlights in dull windows, the orange pulse of a DON’T WALK signal that suddenly turned white. She turned around to get moving again and—
“Hey! Hey, you, come over here!”
Nilla froze in place.
Three men wearing brown caps stood at the back of a panel truck. The letters LVCC had been stenciled on the driver’s side door. Two of them men wore surgical masks and latex gloves. The other one was staring at her with hot eyes.
“I fucking told you, get over here! I’m not waiting around all night while you figure that one out, asshole. Come on.”
Nilla moved toward him. He had scars from a childhood illness all over his face and very long eyelashes. He had a gun holstered at his hip. If she didn’t act fast enough, if she didn’t strike hard enough he was going to kill her and even then, even if she took him down she had to worry about his two friends. This was it—the chainlink fence at the end of the dark alley. Endgame.
“Here,” he said, and shoved something at her. A mask and a pair of latex gloves. “You’re on Plague Patrol tonight. I don’t care what you were doing before, I’m three men short and I’ve got a schedule to meet.”
Monster Nation: A Zombie Novel Page 20