by Karpa, Boris
The use of that word made Arthur tense up. It was the first time in a long while he had heard anybody refer to the undead creatures as "zombies". The use of the word, he understood, was a sign that these creatures now held less of a threat. This was a good sign for Martin's plan – whatever the plan was.
- "Not in detail," – Martin shook his head – "But in broad strokes, I agree with the general notion – we should organize and then we should kill them all. We have much better tools for the job than sharpened sticks and polished rocks. We don't have to organize in quite the same way."
- "But the general idea is still that? Organize and kill them all?"
- "That's right." – the advisor said. – "Organize, prepare, and kill them all. It worked for the passenger pigeon."
- "Ghouls aren't passenger pigeons," – the Mayor retorted.
- "That's true," – concluded the advisor, – "If ghouls could fly, we'd all be screwed."
For a minute, both men laughed at this joke, with Arthur joining in too.
- "I like the way your mind works," – the Mayor said after the laughter had calmed down – "So what do you want in return?"
- "Two houses in the city, and one percent of everything we find." – said the advisor.
- "Why two houses?" – the Mayor's eyebrows seemed to rise out of their own accord.
- "Because my apprentice here needs a house too. A nice villa in the northern parts, where the rich folks lived. Ought to get him well set up for the future."
- "You're serious about this plan, aren't you?" – the Mayor inquired.
- "Yes. Which brings me to the main part of my payment. Have you ever heard of Serenity Bay?"
- "I've heard about them before the ghouls started hitting the fan. I can't say I was a big fan of them as they were then – and I hear they've gotten worse now. I've heard of the fellow you brought in – it seems they were going to try and have him executed, is that right?"
- "It is. They've devolved into full-on slave planters. This young man here?" – Martin nodded in Arthur's direction – "They sold him to me two weeks ago. I figured I'd need a hand and I..."
- "Wait a second." – the Mayor's voice grew cold. – "You. Bought. A slave?"
There was silence. The Mayor's right hand had vanished under the desk – and it did not take a clairvoyant to figure out it was resting on his pistol. His eyes burned with naked, unconcealed hatred as he transfixed Martin with his stare.
- "No-" – Martin started – "I've told Arthur, he's free to leave wherever-"
- "I'm sure you did." – the Mayor said, his face splitting in a vicious, predatory grin.
There was a loud noise, as if a hammer had slammed down on the Mayor's desk. It was hard to spot the motion of his hand – but now the Mayor had a pistol aimed at Martin, it's grip resting against the pristine mahogany surface. His finger was on the trigger.
“I'm sure you did tell him that.” – the Mayor repeated. – “Free to leave, isn't he? Free to leave where? Into the wild? To be eaten by ghouls? Why do you think I even believe you did, Martin? You've bought a slave there. Explain to me why I shouldn't suspect you of it?”
Martin looked back at the Mayor and gulped visibly. There was clearly no way for him to draw his own gun before the Mayor would pull the trigger – but perhaps there would be something else he could do. Arthur could nearly hear the Advisor's heart racing for a solution. Perhaps he should dive out of the line of fire? Rush at the Mayor in a last-ditch charge? What on earth could he even do?
- “Now let's do this slowly, Martin. You're going to unstrap that gun from your hip – not 'take it out', just unstrap the holster and drop it on the floor. I'm not stupid. Do it slowly and nobody will have to die. And then I'm going to call some people in and we're going to have us a nice discussion of all this. Don't worry – I respect you, so I might persuade the Sheriff of this fine Republic to let you have a defender in court – even though you're not a citizen. And frankly, that's too kind. You already confessed your crime. Come on now.”
Slowly, trying hard not to startle the Mayor with a sudden motion – startling a man who has a gun on you is suicide – Martin began to fiddle with the straps that held his holster in place. The pistol fell to the ground with a heavy thud.
- “Keep at it.” – the Mayor said.
- “What?” – Martin replied.
- “I am not stupid. I know you. You have more guns on you.”
The derringer dropped on the floor helplessly.
“The knives, too,” – the Mayor continued.
A large, fixed-blade knife dropped to the floor, still in its sheath. Then there was another fixed-blade knife, a bit smaller. And a folding knife. And then, as if to mock the Mayor's insistence, Martin took off his Leathermann – less a knife than a folding set of tools – and dropped that on the Mayor's table, still in its rectangular leather sheath.
“Nail clippers, too?”
“No, that will be quite enough.” – the Mayor said – “Now...”
“And now,” – Arthur's voice rang suddenly, – “Drop your gun, Mr. Mayor. Joke's over.”
“What?” – the Mayor said. He turned towards the young man (Arthur had to give him his due – his gun was still trained on Martin). His eyes widened – Arthur had his rifle raised, trained at the Mayor's face at three yards. He could not miss. With a deft movement of his finger, Arthur shifted the sector switch.
In the silence that fell in the room, it could be heard to click once – twice.
“That's on full, just so we're clear.” – Arthur explained – “Now, Mr. Mayor. I understand you think Martin is a slave driver. No, that is not true. I am a free man. And as a free man, I am offering you a choice.”
“A... choice?” – the Mayor uttered dumbly. – “What choice?”
“Either you put the pistol down, apologize to me and Martin. Then we forget all of this ever happened. Or you can try and shoot Martin. But then I will pull the trigger. I'm on 'full' and I'm aiming at your chin. You're not even going to rise as a ghoul – unless your brain is located in your tailbone, that is. “
“Why don't I turn around and shoot you?” – the Mayor inquired, his tone nearly amicable.
“You can try. You are, after all, a free man,” – Arthur replied – “But even if you succeed, Martin is still there. Something tells me I will not die alone.”
And then the Mayor laughed. It was a long, raucous, joyful laugh, as if Arthur was not standing there with a rifle trained on him. His fingers went slack, and the pistol fell flat on the desk. A large indented scratch was left on its smooth surface where the grip had smashed into it.
- “I'm sorry,” – he said – “I'm sorry, Martin. This boy is nobody's slave. You did a good job getting him out of that hole, and I am very sorry.”
For a brief second, both the advisor and his apprentice stood dumbfounded, looking at the Mayor across his desk. Slowly, Arthur lowered his rifle. Martin reached across the desk, taking the Leathermann slowly, and then attaching it to his belt, without taking his eyes off the Mayor's hands.
The Mayor was smiling now – a broad, genuine smile. “Martin, you have to understand, I've seen some totally whacked-out stuff in the months I've been running this town. People taking slaves – in name or in fact, taking on 'refugees' so they could force them to do work or serve out their sick wishes – I've seen things like that. I usually don't even bother trying them. A rope is usually good enough. You – I thought I knew you as one of the good guys. This is why I was so outraged when I heard you...”
“Bought a person?” – helped Martin.
“Yes. But I gave you the benefit of the doubt.”
“That's not what it felt like from here. From here it felt like you were aiming a gun at my face.”
“Had I not given you the benefit of the doubt, it'd feel more like getting shot.” – the Mayor shrugged.
“A fair point. Now... where were we?”
“Talking about the fellows you bought this fellow from. A fine fellow, I may add. Arthur, you are always welcome in the Florentine Republic,” – the Mayor turned to the young man. Arthur cut him off briskly.
“I am still learning. After a few months with Martin, maybe I'll be more of an... asset to you.”
“A good answer.” – the Mayor nodded – “And after this little incident I know it isn't rehearsed. Just so you know, Arthur – I'll always be glad to have someone like you.”
“Which brings me back to our point.” – Martin interrupted – “There is another one like Arthur. His name is Jake Windham. He's recovering in your hospital right now. He was beaten bloody by a Serenity Bay goon when me and Arthur broke up their fun.”
“I've been told about this. No details though. What happened?”
“We fought. He was about to finish me when Jake took off his head with the rifle. Full-auto, close range.”
“If I had known he likes shooting people in the head on full-auto at touch range, I wouldn't have even considered pulling a gun in this room.”
“An admirable sentiment.” – Martin nodded – “But that's not my point. There are about two hundred young men and women like Jake and Arthur out at Serenity Bay. We both know that buying them out one by one won't work. It never worked in the old South, on the plantations.”
“It just encourages the bastards.” – the Mayor nodded.
“So here's what I need.” – Martin replied – “It's part of my pay. Give me eight people who are good with a rifle. I will go to Serenity Bay and I will kill every last drillmaster and we will free these people they're keeping there.”
“Eight people?” – the Mayor raised an eyebrow.
“There are about two dozen staff there. You'll have me and Arthur. Eight more people. We will hit them by surprise.”
“And after we've killed the last of them, you'll lead us to the dry-storage warehouses and help us take it?” – the Mayor reached for his handgun and placed it in his holster.
“That's right.” – Martin nodded.
“We only need seven more men.” – the Mayor suddenly countered.
“Only seven?” – Arthur interjected – “Why only seven?”
“Because I'm going with you. Someone should have shot one of these people years ago, not waited for the world to end.”
15:35
Arthur dropped on the ground without a single word. Next to him, Martin came down. He was not merely wordless – not a single item on his clothing made a single noise – not the knives, not the binoculars fixed on his hip, not his own rifle. They were lying on the crest of a hill. Below them was the sea shore – and, pressed against the water, the tall white fences of Serenity Bay.
It had started out as a hotel resort – then had been re-sold in the end of the last century and made into what it was now. Tall white fences were thrown up and a guard tower posted near the gate – not so much to actually guard the inmates but to intimidate them from running. Inside, the old hotel building was surrounded by sets of white boxes – barracks for the inmates. Several fields had been swallowed up by the white, tall fencing as well. Before the apocalypse had made them essential for survival, they had been used for make-work for the inmates.
Back on the hill, Arthur squinted through the scope. He looked down at the gate. Down below, on ground level, there was a guard shack. Its window was barred with rough, hastily-attached bars – no doubt to prevent the ghouls from coming in. Inside it, he saw a small, gleaming light. In the shadow of the guard shack it was visible even now – a guard's cigarette. Without a word, Arthur's finger crawled to the selector switch of his rifle.
Next to him, Martin raised his hand slightly, showing him the flat of his palm. No. Arthur nodded. If he were to fire the rifle now, the other people who were now taking positions around the fences would take this as a sign. And they weren't prepared yet.
Fifty yards away, he knew, the Mayor of the Florentine Republic was setting up his own weapon – a long, black rifle like his own, set up with a larger scope. Even now, the man had tied off his dreadlocks in a tail behind his head, and was scanning the windows of the floor through the massive scope. The others were approaching too – each from his own angle, each knowing his place. They have discussed this plan even as they were taking up arms – questioning Arthur about the camp as they filled their pockets with rifle magazines, asking Martin about his ideas as they put on assault vests covered with pockets and hopped up and down to see if their gear made noises.
Martin seemed to know things about Serenity Bay – more than you would expect a man to know if he had just come there once to buy out a single prisoner. He knew things that Arthur himself never paid much attention to – guard shifts, for example. Arthur did not know the guards changed every two hours. Martin did.
*
When they stopped Martin's car – the small, red Yo-Mobile – long before arriving at their goal, and climbed out to walk, Arthur asked the advisor about that.
- "How come you knew all that stuff?"
- "What stuff?"
- "About the camp. When they change guards, what guns the guards have. I didn't know that and I... lived there for six months. How did you know that?"
- "Ah. Those things." – Martin replied – "I've been paying them visits... sometimes just watching them for the hills."
- "Why?"
- "Because I don't like having a slave plantation as my neighbors." – Martin shrugged. – "Do you?"
Arthur shuddered. Get down there, you little turd! Get down there and give me fifty or I will come over and stomp on your head! He remembered. His hands were wrist deep in the liquid mud. The drillmaster was standing over him, holding his baton in his hand, tapping its end impatiently against the open palm of the other. His elbows and arms ached as he let his body descend towards the mud, its cold surface lapping against his shirt – and then he pushed himself upwards. He paused at forty-five – almost completely exhausted – and was immediately rewarded with a baton swipe to the shoulder. And... forty-six, forty-seven, until he was left lying helplessly in the liquid mud. They did this often – it kept them exhausted and humiliated. The drillmasters enjoyed it, of course – but exhausted and humiliated people don't stand up to their masters all that well.
- "No," – Arthur said. – "I guess I wouldn't."
- "Don't worry," – Martin replied – "This is going to be easy."
- "How do you know that?"
- "They're geared to fend off ghouls – that's not hard, all you need is a fence and some people who are disciplined enough to stand watch. They watch against escapes – also not very hard given that there are ghouls waiting outside. But there's nothing there against an actual attack by people who've planned for it and have a brain."
- "I.... see."
- "Quiet now. We're getting close. Don't worry. It'll go off without a hitch."
*
- "What is that?" – Martin whispered.
- "I definitely don't know. Never got outside the fence." – Martin replied – "What's-"
- "Sshh..." – Martin pressed a finger to his lips. – "Don't talk. Whisper. Like me."
- "What is that?" – Arthur asked again, whispering now, frantic.
- "That's what bothers me," – Martin answered – "They never had a vehicle patrol before."
By "vehicle patrol", Martin had of course meant the truck – a greenish-blue truck that was even now circling the camp, on the narrow road ringing its tall fence.
For a second they simply stared at the truck as it passed by. Briefly, the truck stopped in front of the guard cabin, and then moved on. In a minute, it disappeared behind a turn.
- "What is that?" – Arthur whispered.
- "I think..." – Martin looked at the gate with empty eyes, his voice nearly inaudible – "They're probably on high gear since they lost their buddy the drillmaster – he's not come back – no truck
or anything."
Arthur felt himself fill with elation – but then he realize that there was nothing at all to be happy about. "This isn't very good."
- "No. But we can't delay."
- "What do you mean... we should just rush in there?" – Arthur replied.
Suddenly, a low, mechanical-sounding voice sounded – coming from Martin's pocket. Arthur nearly jumped up in fear – he had not expected the silence to be broken. It took him a second to understand what the voice was – a pocket radio, a thick black rectangle the size of a man's palm and half again as long, with a round, thick antenna.
- Owl, this is Pine Tree, what is that, over?
Martin raised the device to his ear, even as he pressed himself even lower to the ground. There was no chance they would be heard this far – but still, it would not do to be careless. He squeezed the radio in his hand – Arthur had already seen radios like this and knew you had to press a button on the side to talk:
– "Pine tree, I am Owl. They've learned from this morning. Clearly they're more careful. No takebacks, over."
There was a brief silence. For a few seconds, Arthur and Martin looked each other in the eye. Arthur was afraid, suddenly – afraid that Mayor Jackson would call everything off, and they would have to run back to their car and leave. He only realized now that he had expected – wanted – to actually do it, to burst in there and avenge himself on Serenity Bay.
- Owl, this is Pine Tree. You're right. No takebacks. Wait for it to circle. Over and out.
They waited for long, excruciating seconds, listening for the noise of the truck's engine. Near him, Martin was peering at his watch with unflinching eyes, counting every second that it took the pickup to come around the bend. Eventually, it appeared from out behind the corner on their left side, heading once more towards the gate.
- "Ready." – said Martin. – "Hold on the guard tower."
The world seemed to slow down even more. The truck seemed to be moving at a walking pace, pulling up in front of the gate. It stopped only feet away from the guard shack. Arthur saw the driver's arm appear from the truck's window, reaching for the barred window. A second later, something appeared from the bars – a small white object. A cigarette. The driver withdrew his arm.