Lazarus: Enter the Deadspace

by Daniel Willcocks

  “You okay?”

  “I just feel a bit faint. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve eaten properly. Slept properly. Drank properly, for that matter.” She looked up at Lucas, bright eyes. “Would you mind if we waited a while? Do you have any food?”

  Lucas was unsure what he’d find when he opened the cupboards. But, sure enough, he found a few tins of miscellaneous fruits and stodgy substances that hadn’t fallen to the same infection that the rest of the food had. Lucas wished that he’d emptied his fridge before he’d left, not even chancing to open it now with a few creeper vines worming their way through the magnetic seal. He could only imagine the smell if he’d open it. Who knows? Perhaps some carrot would have rotten so much that it had come to life, reaching little mouldy tendril fingers out to throttle him before he could close the door.

  They both ate. They both drank. Soon the darkness began to fall. At first, Lucas felt keen to make a move and get on the road. But then he found that part, that guilty, primitive part of him that found that he wanted nothing more than to spend time with Maddie. To reconnect. To get to know her properly. After an hour or so her complexion regained its rosy lustre. Lucas found a couple bottles of Jameson’s whisky, helped himself and was surprised when Maddie asked for him to share.

  “A lot has changed since we shared a tent, Lucas Dixon. A lot indeed.” She took a large swig, wincing as the last of it passed her tongue. “I’m not sure why, but I always remembered that Jameson’s was your whisky. Freddy would buy the stuff for himself – you obviously started a trend – and, as time went by, I’d find myself just opening the lid, and sniffing the bottle. You must think it’s stupid but, it let me remember the good times. Life just hasn’t been the same since… well…”

  Lucas took a swig. “Do you ever think about it? That night, I mean?”

  For a moment, Lucas thought he’d offended Maddie. That he’d said something that flipped her off switch. But then she reached for the bottle, not drinking, just holding it to her bosom, and said, “All the time. I don’t think any of us have really ever forgotten. I mean, how could you ever forget losing a friend?”

  Lucas nodded. “And Fred?”

  “Fred took it worse than me, I think. But, you know him, he’s always been one to keep his cards close to his chest. I tried asking him about it a few times. Mostly on the days when I couldn’t stop thinking about it myself. Ira was so young. I found myself waking up to a wet pillow where I’d been sobbing in my sleep. Fred would sit up, see me there, desperate to talk about it, then roll over and pretend he was asleep. I never blamed him for that. But I needed someone… y’know?”

  They fell silent. Lucas became aware of the gentle ticking of a clock on the mantelpiece and watched the pendulum swing back and forth. A gift handed down through his family for generations. If only all life could keep on ticking…

  “I can’t imagine how it felt for you,” Maddie continued. “Is that why you left?”

  Lucas took the bottle back from Maddie and drank. After a couple big gulps he gently lowered the bottle, took a deep breath. “He was like a brother to me, Maddie. No matter how far I run, I can’t ever escape that.”

  Maddie moved closer to Lucas and rested her head on his shoulder. Her arm wrapped around his chest and he only hoped that she couldn’t feel his beating heart. She was warm, and though she hadn’t seemed to care at all about her hygiene, there was still a sweet smell that made his throat dry. “I don’t think I ever did say sorry.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Well it wasn’t yours either,” Maddie said. She turned her head, hers and Lucas’ face only inches away from each other. Her breath smelled of whisky, her eyes shimmering. Lucas felt himself being pulled as if by strings towards her. She looked at his lips. He looked at hers. Could feel her…

  Lucas felt himself submitting. Until a strange thing happened. In a camera flash, Maddy’s face disappeared, replaced by Freddy’s. He puckered his stubbled face and batted his eyelashes at Lucas. Another flash and he was gone.

  Lucas pushed himself back into the chair as far as he could. Maddy fell onto his stomach.

  “Lucas? Everything okay?” She observed his expressions, a genuine concern on her face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

  “It’s fine. Just… maybe…” he pinched his eyes and looked out the window, seeing the darkness beyond. “Maybe we should think about getting some sleep.”

  They slept in the living room, Maddy snuggled into Lucas on the sofa. Talk had died pretty quickly, but it felt good to have somebody to hold. Throughout the night Maddy mumbled in her sleep, words that held no coherence or significance. She fidgeted and Lucas found himself trying to hold her still. There were other noises in the night, too. Knocks and rumbles from upstairs and outside. Lucas wondered if the gunshot had been enough to take out the feral boy. Perhaps he was still up there, making his way to Lucas at less than a millimetre an hour. At one point he heard the growls of a feral close to the front of the house, but it didn’t seem interested in taking the walk down his garden path and working out how to navigate the door handle.

  When they woke in the morning, the world was quiet. They ate a quick breakfast, grabbed the needles, and anything else they figured they’d need and hopped in the car. Eyes set to High Point and finding the remaining Revivers.

  Part 3

  BUCK & BASEBALL

  21

  “Looks like it’s going to be another Indian summer,” Jensen said, hiding a smile behind his hand.

  Anita Patel faked a laugh, waving her hand his way. She had learned long ago that he meant no harm. “That one never gets old, Jenson. But we’ll never get a true Indian summer here. India keeps those summers for itself. It does look like it’s going to be a beautiful day, though.”

  And it certainly did. The sun beat down its rays onto the little suburban enclosure. A tiny town comprised of houses lined in perfect parallels and ninety-degree turns. A place for everything and everything in its place. Semi-detached white houses with luscious lawns and immaculate porches. Anita loved it here. There wasn’t a morning that she didn’t wake up and take a few breaths of gratitude for her picturesque neighbourhood. It was a notch or two above the crowded streets of Bangladesh she had endured until her tenth birthday when Ma and Pitaji had finally bundled up enough cash to move to the part of the world where freedom reigned and life was good. She made a point of counting her blessings each morning since then and had yet to forget a single day.

  She turned a corner, adjusted her brightly coloured carrier bags with items stretched against the plastic, blocked Jensen from sight, and sighed. She supposed that was one of the only downsides of being an Indian girl in America. No matter how far you travelled, or no matter how many days you spent calling one place your home, there are always those who remind you that the colour of your skin made you an outsider. Of course, she was sure that that wasn’t Jensen’s intention. He was the type of guy who would use a ‘your mama’ joke at a funeral and not see it as inappropriate. He was just a type of person that Anita had come around to thinking of as ‘casual racists’, or sometimes even, ‘innocent racists’ – if indeed there was such a thing.

  Anita turned another corner, her heels clacking on the sidewalk.

  When Anita had first arrived at the little community in High Point – Population: 1206 – she had driven most weekends. She wasn’t sure why. Everything in High Point was well within walking distance. But somehow over the years, the town had seemed to shrink and shrink as she became familiar with each resident, each store, each entry and exit into the guarded village. Now she walked everywhere, her silver Buick gathering rust on her drive. She had never felt so healthy. So happy. So glad to be alive.

  She walked back down the street, the heat blanketing her. In the distance, the tarmac swam in a lazy haze. To her left and right were neatly pruned gardens – some with sprinklers arcing water back and forth over perfect lawns – and she noticed then that a lot of the doors and windows w
ere open. She figured she’d do the same when she got home. Help to ease the heat a bit.

  Though there were roads in High Point, there was rarely a time when a car would pass by. Anita found herself at a zebra crossing and saw Jennifer Rivera walking her way. She looked spritely if not a little tacky from sweat. There was a papoose attached to the front of her chest where Anita could just make out the top of little Marie’s head.

  “Good morning,” Anita shouted, stopping in the middle of the crossing.

  “Ah, Dr Patel. Just the person I was hoping to bump into.” Jennifer’s brow was peppered with beads of sweat, her long dark hair pulled tight and scrunched at the back. “It’s Marie. She’s been quiet all morning, with a bit of a hot head. I’m worried that she’s coming down with something.”

  Anita popped her bags on the floor, pulled a pair of spotless glasses from a case in her pocket, snapped it closed and put them on. “Let me see.”

  Jennifer unbuckled a clasp and levered Marie’s head from the bonds of the papoose, just enough for Anita to place a hand on her forehead, check her eyes, and then place a couple fingers on the baby’s chest.

  “Well?” Jennifer asked eagerly.

  Anita straightened and picked up her bags. “I’d say nothing to worry about for now. It could just be the warm weather is getting to her. Or it could just be a bit of a cold. Just make sure she’s drinking plenty of fluids, and if you’re still worried tomorrow, then pop by the surgery and see me.”

  Jennifer sighed with relief. “Ah, good. Sorry to bother you, it’s just, you were there… we were here…”

  Anita smiled. “Don’t mention it. Happy to help. Remember, the door’s always open… except on days that end with ‘y’.”

  “Oh… sure,” Jennifer smiled. A furrow of confusion appearing on her forehead as she left.

  She never was the brightest bulb in the bunch…

  Anita decided to walk the long way home. With the sky so clear and the air so still, it was hard not to feel elated, at peace. It was rare that Anita ever got a day to herself, and even on the days she did, like today, she found herself constantly pestered by friendly faces with ‘small problems’. Not that she minded, really. What was the point in vowing to help people if you turned them away when they were in need?

  She took a detour down Vine Street, turned right at the T-junction at the end, and found herself approaching two large mesh gates. Just in front was a sentry booth that looked out to the surrounding neighbourhood. Wide metal slices fanned out from the gate’s hinges to allow traffic in or out during the evening times. At either side a length of mesh fence topped with barbed wire for miles, enclosing the small town in relative safety. One of the selling points of her buying a house some fifteen years ago.

  A fat man with a friendly smile approached her. “Morning Dr Patel.” It was Stanley Aston. His face was red from the sun and slick with sweat. “Another scorcher today, eh?”

  “You’re not wrong. Some would say it looks like an Indian summer.”

  Stanley raised his eyebrows, “Sounds like the musings of Jensen.”

  “How could you tell?”

  They both laughed. Stanley a little harder than Anita.

  They stood and spoke for some time. Stanley was one of the regular security guards. A rotund rust-coloured man with a fierce attitude when needed. It had taken a few months for Stanley to warm to Anita. She found herself regularly dreading the drive in and out of High Point, hoping that it wouldn’t be him at the gates but one of his trainees. Until, one day, Stanley had graced the doorway of her medical surgery. He had seemed surprised to see her there at first, and Anita had found herself wondering if maybe he was one of the innocent racists, until after a couple of regular health appointments Stanley asked a question that put everything into place.

  “I don’t suppose you know when Dr Hoskins is coming back?”

  Anita had told Stanley that Dr Hoskins’ departure was part of the reason she had a job. He wasn’t coming back. But she could assure Stanley that she knew his medical records inside and out, and a few regular visits for physiotherapy on his knees will soon sort out the pain.

  After that, the two had become friends. Not share-a-meal friends, but at least a natter and a cup of coffee every now and again. Out of all the residents of High Point, Anita could safely say that Stanley had fast become one of her favourites.

  They walked through the gate and Stanley guided Anita into the sentry box. It was a reasonable size, with space enough for four people at a push. It was even warmer inside the box, though, with the windows acting as a conductor for the heat. After a while, the sun became too much for even Anita to handle. She made a small joke about melanoma. Stanley chuckled at that, took the hint, flicked a thick curtain across, blocking the road from view.

  “What if someone comes? Shouldn’t you be keeping an eye out?”

  “People rarely come to the gates, Ani. You should know that better than anyone. The people inside rarely leave, having everything they’d ever need, and those in those houses over yonder fear this place and its boundaries. They see the barbed wire and think it’s some sort of prison camp for the damned.”

  Anita laughed. “They’re not far wrong.” She looked around the inside of the box. There were a few posters of ladies in little clothing, a radio control panel, and several stools on wheels next to a pile of magazines. She saw a jacket draped over a chair that would’ve been far too small for Stanley. “Where’s Harry today?”

  “Oh, he’s off doing border patrol. Easy job really, should be back soon.”

  Anita nodded, looked outside through the small slit of light that the curtain hadn’t quite covered, and saw something that caught her eye. On the bottom of the outside of the windowsill was a small layer of golden residue. It looked to her almost like marmalade had been smeared along the edge. She thought back to this morning, seeing a similar substance on her own windows. It seemed to wipe off easy enough.

  They heard footsteps approaching, a little faster than walking. All of a sudden, Harry popped his head through the box’s door.

  “Well, you took your time. How did you get on?”

  “Er… Stan? Oh, hello, Miss Patel. Stan, can I borrow you a second?”

  Stanley gave Anita an ‘excuse me’ gesture, then stepped outside. Anita, heard them whispering. “What is it?”

  “Miss Leyton pointed him out as I was finishing my rounds. Says she thinks he might be ill. He certainly doesn’t look right.”

  Anita stood, exited the box and joined the conversation. “Everything okay?”

  She saw Harry pointing away from High Point, down the long straight road that led to the nearest carriageway. Stanley shaded his eyes with one hand, Anita squinted into the distance. They could just make out the shape of a lone man stumbling along the tarmac. He wobbled left and right, one shoulder lower than the other. Arms fixed like a scarecrow.

  “Is he alright?” Stanley muttered. “Sir?… Sir! Are you okay?!”

  The man paused for a second, Stanley’s voice seeming to paralyse him. Anita felt a strange feeling in her gut but she wasn’t sure why. Something just felt… wrong.

  And then there it was. The man spread his arms wide, tilted his head to the sky, and emitted a sound that Anita couldn’t describe. It had the tinny whine of a radio hunting for frequencies, combined with the intensity of a feedback scream at a concert. They covered their ears, then watched with wide eyes as the man doubled down and began to sprint towards them. He stumbled with every left step as though he was nursing an ankle injury, yet he still came fast.

  “What the…?” Stanley mumbled.

  “What do we do?” Harry asked uncertainly, looking from his boss to the man who was fast gaining ground. They could hear his heavy steps and rasping breath.

  “Grab your gun,” Anita commanded in a whisper. “Grab it now.”

  Stanley obeyed. On an ordinary day Harry would have found that comical, but Stanley emerged from the box a second later with a Custom 1911 h
andgun and trained it on the man.

  Closer now and the boy grabbed hold of Anita’s arm. The man was fast. At this distance, they could see the anger in his eyes, his clothes shredded, stains under his pits, around his mouth, down his leg. “Sir? What’s wrong with—”

  “Shoot,” Anita said.

  “What?” Stanley said. “I can’t just shoot a civilian until I’ve got evidence that—”

  “Shoot!”

  As if by accident a bullet popped off the end of the pistol and buried into the man’s chest. He carried on for a few steps before crashing to the floor some ten foot in front of them, kicking up a small cloud of dust.

  Anita and Stanley walked over to the body. Behind them, they were dimly aware of a few heads poking out to see what was going on.

  Stanley went to crouch down but was stopped by Anita with a firm grip.

  “I wouldn’t get too close,” Anita said.

  Stanley looked at the serious concern on Anita’s face. Anita studied the body, seeing, now that it had stilled, the thin dark lines crawling up its neck. She turned and looked again at the syrup on the edge of the windowsill, finally putting two and two together.

  “Shit.”

  “What is that?”

  Anita sighed, “It’s spreading much faster than I anticipated.”

  22

  The first time she called his name was from the bottom of the spiral staircase. The sound muted somewhat by the house’s thick concrete walls. The second time was accompanied by a knock on the bedroom door. But still, he did not stir, lost in the place where dreams took over conscious thought. The third time was from the small wicker chair next to the luxurious four poster bed in which he slept.

  Or at least, she thought he was sleeping.

  “C’mon Kurt. Wakey, wakey.” Karen’s throat was raspy, not long woken herself.

  A voice came from beside her. “Leave the poor boy to rest.”

  But Kurt could not even hear this. At some moment that night, his mind had switched from its empty, restful state of colourful swirls, into the land that he could not control, nor understand. The land of ghosts. The place where the sandman ruled and the little boys were slaves to their nightly king.