by Tim Waggoner
“I guess congratulations are in order.”
She’d forgotten about Nicholas. He’d been standing in front of the table, but now he slid into the chair vacated by Kate.
He continued. “Don’t worry, I’m not judging. I’m truly happy for the two of you. It’s not easy to find joy in this new world. I know.” His gaze hardened for an instant before warming once again. Marie thought of a chameleon changing color.
“I wanted to talk with you about something,” he said. “Actually, I suppose in a way what I’m really looking for is a consultation.”
Marie frowned. “What do you mean?”
He leaned close to her and lowered his voice. “You’re not the only one who’s been trying to understand the changes Blacktide brought.”
This close, she could smell the faint odor of rotten flesh and old blood coming off him. He’s been near zombies, she thought, and recently. Not that this was suspicious in itself. He had been present last night when Joe was killed by zombies. But there was still something about the smell which struck her as odd. It didn’t seem like the odor of zombies encountered in the open air. The scent was thicker, stale, like the acrid stink in the reptile house at a zoo. He’s been someplace where zombies have been closed in for a while, she thought. He might even have been handling them.
“You’ve been experimenting on them, haven’t you?” she asked.
She thought he might deny it, but he said, “Yes. But where you’ve focused on their behavior, I’ve been more concerned with their biology. I thought it time that we compare notes, perhaps even work together from now on.”
“Does Kate know about this? Does anyone?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t told a soul—except you. No one else would understand.”
Marie could relate to that. “So what do you do? Sneak off by yourself when you’re out doing your Ranger thing, catch a zombie and perform a quick dissection before anyone misses you?”
Nicholas smiled. “That would hardly be practical. I have my own lab. Well, that may be too grandiose a word for it. It’s really more of a workspace. And it’s close.”
“How close?”
His smile widened. “Very. Would you like to see it?”
“I found some matches, boss man.”
David turned toward Jimmy. “Great. Go light the rag, please.”
Jimmy smiled. “Sure thing.” He walked across the parking lot to the rust-nibbled, mold-encrusted SUV that David had selected earlier. The fuel-tank door was open, the gas cap had been removed, and a length of torn tablecloth had been inserted into the tank’s opening.
David stood on the walkway outside Country Time Buffet. His other two employees—Maribel and Lindsey—stood on his right, watching. Half a dozen customers stood clustered off to the side, intrigued by the proceedings. Lindsey stood close to David—or Davey, as she insisted on calling him—her arm linked with his. He didn’t like her getting physical with him like this, but he wanted to keep her in a cooperative mood, so he allowed it.
Simon stood on his left. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
David had no idea if the others could see Simon, as Lizzie had, but if they couldn’t, they didn’t comment when he appeared to talk to himself, so he figured it didn’t matter either way.
“Setting a vehicle on fire?”
“Depending on that guy to light a match. He’s not exactly the most coordinated person in the world.” He gave David a sideways glance. “None of you are.”
David had some idea of what he meant. Since standing in the darkness at the top level of the hospital, his vision had changed. He still saw the world the way he had since first becoming aware on the street, however long ago it had been, Simon walking at his side—sickly yellow sky, buildings, roads and cars aged and covered with mold.
But if he concentrated, he could see a different world, one that looked normal, if deserted and neglected. And the people he saw weren’t people at all; they were filthy, jaundice-skinned things that moved with slow, spastic motions. They definitely were lacking in the gross motor skills department, let alone the fine ones.
Being aware of these two distinctly different versions of the world had bothered David at first, but he’d come to accept it—or at least not be overly concerned by it. A memory rose then from the miasma of his mind. He’d taken a British Lit class in college, and one of the writers they’d studied was the poet John Keats, who’d died of tuberculosis at the tender age of twenty-five. Keats had developed a theory of art that he called negative capability, which he defined as “when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason”. That’s what David was doing now—employing negative capability. Employing the fuck out of it.
As David and the others watched, Jimmy struggled to open the box and remove a single match. He spilled half the box before managing to get his fingers around one, and when he went to run it across the striker, he dumped the remaining matches.
“See what I mean?” Simon said.
“Why don’t you do it then?” David asked.
“I may just be a figment of your imagination, remember? Touching physical objects isn’t in my repertoire.”
David frowned as he forced his fog-enshrouded brain to cough up a memory. “Didn’t you help me to my feet on the playground? You had to touch me to do that.”
“You should know better than to trust your memory by now. Besides, if I had touched you, it would’ve been an exception. I try not to interfere any more than absolutely necessary. It’s that whole ‘teach a man to fish’ thing.”
David wasn’t certain what Simon was talking about, but then he rarely was. They watched Jimmy break the match on the striker, growl “fuck”, then bend down to pick up a new one from the asphalt. He broke that one too, this time said “shit” and bent down to retrieve another.
Simon sighed. “We might be here for a while.”
When David returned to Country Time Buffet, he’d been relieved to find Jimmy, Maribel and Lindsey still alive and more or less whole. They each had chunks of flesh bitten out of them, and Maribel was missing her left eye and ear. They seemed unaware of their injuries, much as David ignored his broken foot, ragged neck wound and assorted other injuries. He supposed that was one good thing about this fucked-up world—pain wasn’t what it used to be. Physical pain, that is.
As if picking up on his thoughts—big surprise—Simon said, “I’m sorry about what happened to Lizzie. But at least you got the son of a bitch who turned her into the blue plate special.”
Jimmy tried another match, resulting in another failure.
“It wasn’t the doctor’s fault,” David said. “People didn’t become cannibals by choice. Something made them this way, just like something changed the world into a living nightmare.”
“And that something would be…?”
David tried to think, but the effort literally made his head hurt. It seemed there was some pain he could still feel. “I don’t know. The demons, maybe. When I was in the…whatever it was at the hospital’s top level, I saw a, well, a kind of map of the town, I guess. I could see where all the people were, and all the demons too. They have a stronghold not too far from here. It’s where they’re holding Sarah captive.”
Jimmy had tried several more matches by this point, all with the same lack of success. He’d run out of single-word obscenities and moved on to colorful combinations, like “Rat-faced, motherfucking dildo eater!” David had known the man was persistent, but he hadn’t realized he could be so linguistically inventive.
“Yes,” Simon said. “But what makes you think the demons are the power behind the world’s transformation?”
“They’re monsters,” David said.
“Perhaps,” Simon allowed. “But then so are all of you. Unless you’ve come to believe that cannibalism is normal. ‘People—the other white meat.’”
“Maybe you’re right. But we hunt the demons for food. They hunt us for spo
rt.”
“So your theory is what? That the demons invaded your world, changed the landscape and transformed its inhabitants into beings that eat them? Doesn’t seem like a very intelligent plan to me.”
“Ball-busting, cunt-chewing shit stain!” Jimmy shouted, then bent down to get another match.
“Then maybe this is Hell, or at least Purgatory. You suggested as much to me earlier, didn’t you? And who knows? Maybe there is no reason why things are the way they are.” David shrugged. “The why doesn’t matter in the end. What matters is the demons are a threat, and they have to be stopped.”
“Not to mention they have Sarah,” Simon said.
“Yes.”
“I have to say I find your change in attitude a bit surprising. It’s because of what else you saw at the hospital, isn’t it? The Gyre.”
That was one memory that remained crystal-clear in David’s mind: lights swirling around ultimate darkness, pulled into the void one particle at a time to be devoured—and, more importantly, savored—with infinite slowness and, in a strange way, infinite love.
“God’s a gourmand who made Himself a meal called Creation, and He’s been dining on it since the beginning of time,” Simon said. “If you prefer to look at it metaphorically, that is.”
“Ass-wiping, dick-licking coozehead!” Another match wasted, another one reached for.
“Like I said, I don’t care about whats or whys. But I do care about getting that rag lit. If this keeps up, we’re going to need another box of matches.”
“So you’re not disturbed by what you saw? Even though deep down in the absolute rock-bottom core of your being you know it’s the truth?”
David thought about it for a moment. “I worked as the manager of an all-you-can-eat buffet restaurant. I guess I’m not surprised that in the end, it all comes down to food.” He glanced at Simon. No matter which version of the world he chose to view, the youth always remained the same. “Or, as you said, hunger. But hunger can be more than a need.”
He turned to look at Jimmy once more. This time he saw the man as a matted-haired, yellow-skinned creature wearing a torn and stained Country Time Buffet uniform. Half of his face was gone, revealing white bone, and he stood with his shoulders lopsided, as if something in his back wasn’t right. He gripped the empty matchbox in one clawlike hand and held a match in the other. His hand shook as he tried to control his movements sufficiently to run the match-head over the striker on the side of the box. David thought this was going to be yet another failure, but Jimmy’s hand jerked, the match scratched across the striker and the head burst into flame.
“It can be a tool,” David finished.
He saw Jimmy as Jimmy once again.
“I did it!” Jimmy shouted with delight. Without waiting for further instruction, he turned to the SUV and touched the burning match to the cloth hanging from the fuel tank.
“Good work,” David said. “Now get away from there before—”
The cloth burned far more swiftly than David expected, as if he were watching a sped-up film. He remembered how fast the demons moved, and he wondered idly if he picked up a stone and dropped it, would it speed to the ground as if rocket propelled? Then there was no more time to think.
The gas in the SUV’s tank caught fire and the world became a riot of noise and light and heat. David felt multiple impacts as something struck his face and hands, but they didn’t hurt, so he ignored them. The SUV lay on its side, wreathed in yellow-orange flame, clouds of thick black smoke billowing into the air. Jimmy had been thrown clear of the blast and lay on his back, spread-eagled. He hadn’t escaped injury, though. His limbs were bent and twisted, his skin was seared and his clothes were smoking. A pool of blood spread out from beneath his head. He was motionless, silent, and, David knew, would forever remain that way.
He reached up to touch his face and felt blood oozing from numerous cuts, probably from broken glass sent flying by the explosion. The backs of his hands were dotted with wounds too. He looked at Simon and wasn’t surprised to see the youth’s skin remained smooth and unmarred.
“I suppose you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs,” Simon said. “Or in this case, employees.”
David was sorry to see Jimmy go out like that, but it saved him the trouble of having to choose someone.
He turned to Lindsey and Maribel. “Toss him into the fire.”
“But, Davey,” Lindsey whined. “It seems like such a waste! The woman did call him Mr. Meat, after all!”
David fixed her with an icy stare. “Do it, or I’ll throw you in after him.”
For a moment, it seemed as if Lindsey would argue further, but then she lowered her gaze. “Yes, David.” She turned to Maribel. “C’mon.”
As the two women walked toward Jimmy’s body, the customers who’d been watching off to the side began sidling forward, mouths open and drooling, keening with wordless hunger.
David stepped forward and placed himself between the customers and Jimmy’s body. He saw two versions of them, as if each eye were looking at a different image. In one image they were a half-dozen men and women, dressed normally. In another they were hideous parodies of humans, faces and forms distorted, clothing soiled by a disgusting combination of substances. And they smelled like a backed-up sewer in Hell.
“Stay back,” David warned, “or I’ll tear your throats out with my teeth!”
The customers hesitated. An elderly black woman wearing a purple dress and a black wig that sat slightly askew on her head said, “You can’t stop all of us!”
David heard her speak these words; he also heard her growl like an animal.
“Try me, bitch.” He heard his own words, heard his own growl. Both were much fiercer than the woman’s.
She looked to the others for support, but no one would meet her gaze. She gave David a last defiant glare, but she kept her place along with the others.
David turned in time to see Maribel and Lindsey heave Jimmy’s body onto the fire. Neither woman appeared very strong, but he’d known they could do it. They were all stronger these days, especially when they were hungry. And they were always hungry.
Within moments, Jimmy’s body hissed and popped as skin crisped and fat bubbled. The smell of cooking meat filled the air.
Simon walked over to stand next to David.
“What’s the plan, Stan?”
“If I’m going to rescue Sarah and kick the demons’ collective asses, I’m going to need some help. And when you want people to show up, there’s only one way to make sure they do.”
Simon grinned. “Offer them free food.”
David nodded grimly and waited for his improvised barbecue to do its work.
As Nicholas crossed the grounds of the school with Marie at his side, he turned to give Pat Holland a wave. The only acknowledgment the sentry gave was a slight nod, along with a wink and a smile. Nicholas figured the man assumed that he was taking Marie to the shed to have sex with her. Why anyone would need to leave the school to fuck, when there were so many empty rooms to use, was beyond him, but then Pat wasn’t exactly Mensa material. Besides, Nicholas knew the man didn’t give a shit what he did, just as long as he kept the pills coming. Of course, after today, that bridge would be well and truly burned.
Once she stepped inside the shed, Marie would never leave, and since Pat would’ve seen her enter with Nicholas—as Nicholas had known he would—the jig, as they say, would be up. But that was okay, downright copacetic, in fact. He was tired of pretending to be something he wasn’t. Today he would show Marie—and by extension, the rest of the pathetic meat sacks who fancied themselves tough-as-nails survivors—that there was more to be afraid of in this world than a bunch of staggering corpses that could barely remain upright. Much more.
The morning was chilly and overcast, a typically gray November day in Ohio. Nicholas sniffed the air. It smelled like it might rain soon. That was good. The sound of rain would help mask the noises coming from the shed.
&
nbsp; “I don’t want to stay out too long,” Marie said. “I don’t want to miss the memorial service.” She’d buttoned her jean jacket against the cold and walked with her hands in her pockets. Nicholas wondered if she owned a winter coat, not that she’d need one after today.
“Of course. I don’t want to miss it, either. But this is the best time to go out. Not only is Pat on duty, but Kate’s busy. Nothing against her, but I don’t think she’d understand what I’ve been trying to do.”
“Maybe,” Marie said. From her tone, it sounded as if she intended to reserve judgment. “Does she know about your secret exit? It’s an even bigger security risk than the one I usually use.”
She turned her head from side to side as they walked, keeping an eye out for zombies. Even with armed sentries posted on the roof of the school’s main building, she still kept watch for herself. Smart girl. Too bad her survival instincts didn’t extend to human threats such as him.
“No. Like I said, I doubt she’d understand.”
When they reached the shed, he took out his key, unlocked the padlock and undid the chains. Even before he took hold of one of the door handles, Marie wrinkled her nose and said, “Ugh! What’s that smell?”
Nicholas smiled, opened the door and shoved her inside.
Chapter Twelve
The parking lot was filled shoulder to shoulder with people, and more were arriving every minute. There were more children than David expected, especially after what had happened to Lizzie and Steve.
“They tend to be faster and harder to catch than adults,” Simon said. “Not as much meat on them, either. More like hors d’oeuvres than a full meal.”
Thinking of Lizzie made his stomach gurgle, and he unconsciously rubbed his belly. It’s okay, sweetie. You’re with Daddy now. He wished he’d thought to eat some of Steve. Then he would’ve had both of his children with him.
“Not exactly back to the womb,” Simon said, “but I suppose it’s close enough.”