All the Dead Are Here

by Pete Bevan

  “I have absolutely no idea, son.”

  Just then the Speakers blared into life with DC Breaks’ “The More I Want”.

  The C&C truck was a large, mobile Police forensic lab, with most of the equipment ripped out with the exception of some large screens, computers, and short to medium range radio. At the far end, past the boxes of rations and ammo, was a sectioned-off room with a small table, chairs and a bunk. As the General entered, the operators inside barely acknowledged him and stared intently at the maps and screens around. The General nodded to the sentry who saluted and opened the door for him. It was tidy and well organised but smelled of sweat. Fresh water was for drinking not cleaning. You work with what you have.

  The interrogation area doubled as the General’s Private quarters and at the table sat Mr Scratch. The table had a large ring in the centre with the handcuffs attached to it, as sometime looters or marauders where picked up outside the compound and were brought here. Unfortunately, Mr Scratch was no longer attached to the handcuffs and he sat calmly, one leg crossed over the other with his hands in his lap. He didn’t move as the General paused, weighing the implication of his discovery. The only light came from a small window in the roof which illuminated a neat square on the table. It was secured with a chain and padlock. The muffled sound of the music barely penetrated the steel shell.

  Without saying a word, the General removed his hat and tossed it on the bunk behind him in the dusty gloom. He removed the sunglasses, running his calloused hand over his bald head and he took out the pistol, clicked out the magazine and tossed it next to the hat.

  “Ooh, you are a cool customer aren’t you? A cool cat. A cool daddio,” said Mr Scratch. The General turned and stood opposite, staring at the ragged figure. He realised the figure was in the remnants of a suit.

  “Your accent. You’re not American are you?”

  “No. No. No. No. No. I’m not one of you lot. Certainly not. Not a ‘Colonial’. He he.”

  “Australian? Limey?”

  “Ah, well yes, all the bad guys have British accents don’t they? In your movies.”

  “So you’re a bad guy?”

  Mr Scratch’s eyes narrowed and he wagged a bony finger frantically at the General,

  “Oh you’re good. Very good. I’m going to have to be careful what I say with you aren’t I. Huh? Huh?”

  The General smiled, “How did you get in my compound?”

  “That’s not important,” said Mr Scratch levelly.

  “It’s important because if you can get in, then one of those things can get in, and if one of my men dies because of you not telling me the truth I’ll take that pistol behind me and I’ll blow your fucking brains out.”

  Mr Scratch looked crestfallen, and sank slightly in his seat. Tears began to well in his eyes.

  “No. Oh no. Not threats. Not already. We were getting on so well.” His sadness turned to a thin smile.

  “Nothing can get in, I promise you.” The two men paused and looked at each other.

  “Ok,” said the General, unconsciously checking his pockets again. Mr Scratch looked at the General quizzically.

  “So why are you here?”

  “Because of these,” Mr Scratch said. Coolly, he took one hand, extended his finger and reached slowly into his shirt pocket and the General watched him coolly. He took out an old loose pack of cards, tied with an elastic band.

  He removed the elastic band skilfully by twisting it around his fingers and sat it precisely on the table forming a perfect red rubber ring. He placed the cards gently on the table, face down. It was clear from the back that they were not standard playing cards, for they had a circular symbol of fine blue lines, ornate and faded with age. The cards themselves were yellowed and ragged, like their owner. The General stared at the cards for a moment, then raised his eyes and looked at Mr Scratch, who sat and returned his gaze for a moment, before smiling back through course lips. “You see, since this started I have had some interesting results from the cards. Please have a look.” He swept his hand over the cards in a welcoming way.

  “I’m not interested in card tricks,” said the General.

  “This is no trick,” replied Mr Scratch, a black look dropping over his thin features. The General paused, then took then deck in his hand. It was a deck of Tarot cards. The General physically recoiled.

  “I believe in God, not stunts. Put them away,” spat the General.

  “But you believe in God?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then, conversely, you must believe in the Devil?”

  “Of course… Especially now.”

  “Especially now,” said Mr Scratch coolly, holding the cards with one hand and tracing a long yellow fingernail over the circle on its surface.

  “So we are sitting here. Two God-fearing men, surrounded by a billion corpses that walk and talk and run and jump, and yet you won’t touch my cards. I’ll wager you have committed worse sins,” Mr Scratch whispered as he continued to trace the circle on the cards. The General studied the finger nail intently, to the point where he found he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Motes of dust drifted gently in the gloom, lighting up like fireflies in the rays from the skylight. The room was moist and humid as the sun beat against the metal box in which they sat.

  “Indulge me. Just this once,” and he moved the cards slowly towards the General.

  “I mean it’s not as if it’s a ouija board is it? Not some child’s plaything,” said Mr Scratch lightly, drawing the General from his concentration on the circle.

  The General took the cards without any further thought. He spread the deck out looking at the old pictures. The Lovers, The Ace of cups. They were all different.

  “Please. Shuffle them and I will show you something remarkable.”

  Before he realised, he had shuffled the deck inelegantly. The General had little experience of cards as religious men did not gamble as a rule. He placed them back in the circle of light in the centre of the table next to the steel ring, and met the other man’s gaze.

  Mr Scratch smiled a wide open smile that encompassed his whole visage before sweeping the cards up. He shuffled them again and again, not looking from the General’s eyes once. He split the deck, cradled his hands and sorted the cards back into a single deck, before cracking them end on again the table. The sound reverberated around the tiny room as he placed the deck back on the table, straightening it up with his one hand.

  “Please,” he said and again swept his hand welcomingly across the cards.

  The General took one, looked at through narrowed eyes, then placed it face up in front of him. The image showed a brightly dressed figure with staring eyes. He stood in front of a carnival with a small dog at his feet. His pose was stilted and wooden, his head forward like a sagging marionette.

  “The Madman,” said Mr Scratch.

  “I wonder who that could be?” said the General, smiling.

  “I wonder,” said Mr Scratch, smiling but with black eyes as he leant his elbow on the table, framing his mouth with his fingers.

  “Again please.” The General took a second card, looked at it and placed in the circle of light next to the Madman. The image showed an ancient keep with moss covered stones sat on a blasted heath, it looked ancient and unmoving, as if it had remained there since time immemorial.

  “The Tower,” said Mr Scratch. “Perhaps where we met? A third and final card please.”

  The General took a third card. Looked at it, frowned and placed it with a fnap next to the other two. The image of a grotesque medieval creature, maroon, with impish eyes and horns, stared back at them. In its hand a naked woman hung limply.

  “The Devil,” said Mr Scratch with a wry smile. The General looked uncomfortably at the card. Mr Scratch took the three cards and placed them back on top of the deck.

  “Now, please shuffle the cards and repeat the process.” The General took the cards and shuffled them, cut them, shuffled them again and placed them back on the table. He took
the first card. The Madman. He took the second card. The Tower. He paused and looked at Mr Scratch, before taking the third card. The Devil.

  Again Mr Scratch put the cards back on the deck.

  “Once again please,” he said.

  The General once again shuffled the cards and again the sequence was repeated. The Madman, The Tower and the Devil. Mr Scratch took the cards and continued to shuffle them, place the deck on the table and pull the same three cards from the top, always in the same order, always the same three cards.

  “You see,” he said, as he continued to shuffle and place the same three cards. “Ever since this started, it’s always been like this. Madman, Tower, Devil,” he said as he placed them once again on the table.

  “It’s a good trick I’ll grant you. But a trick all the same,” said the General. Mr Scratch took the cards in one hand and again offered them to the General.

  “You shuffled them yourself. Please, carry on. No matter how many times you do this the result will always remain the same. The General raised a hand indicating no. Mr Scratch restarted the trick. Shuffle. Place. Madman. Tower. Devil. Shuffle. Place. Madman. Tower. Devil.

  “So the question is my dear General. What does this mean? Who or what are The Madman, The Tower and The Devil?” The General stared intently at the cards as Mr Scratch repeated the trick, time after time sinking into a slow and steady rhythm.

  “Well, when I saw this marvellous base of yours I knew that was part of the puzzle. Speakers sat high above the city to call your flock towards you. Quite brilliant. That was why I thought I would have to come and see you. Assuming this is the correct tower, then we are left with a Madman and a Devil... and a delicious quandary, of course.” Mr Scratch paused, holding the cut deck in each hand.

  “Well we know who the Madman is,” said the General.

  “Yes well that would obviously be me,” said a smiling Mr Scratch. “But then that leaves you as the Devil?”

  “Obviously,” said the General.

  “So you are the Devil going up against God's will? Trying to survive in a place that God has so obviously damned.”

  “I would have thought this would be the Devil's work.”

  “Really?” Mr Scratch raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I would have thought that the Devil would like the world exactly as it was.” Shuffle. Place. Madman. Tower. Devil.

  “I mean all the rape and murder and chaos. The questionable power of governments, all that obfuscation and trickery, I would have thought that would have been right up his strasse. All these Dead men walking, it’s all so… uniform… so perfect in its order. Everyone exactly the same in thought and deed. Its strikes me that this would be more the way ‘He’ wants things. Maybe Free will was a bit of an experiment gone awry? Don’t you think?”

  “No. God is merciful and good. This can’t be his will. It’s a test of man’s fortitude and only the good will win through.” Shuffle. Place. Madman. Tower. Devil. Mr Scratch shook his head.

  “Let’s assume not. If that is the case then you really are the devil and you should bow down in prayer and let ‘them’ take you while you still have a chance of getting into heaven. Assuming you still believe in heaven?”

  “Of course,” said the General. Mr Scratch stopped dead and held the General’s gaze with eyes as dark as a singularity. Then his face brightened and he continued with the cards. Shuffle. Place. Madman. Tower. Devil. Breezily, he continued.

  “And after all, that can’t be right can it? A man of your deep held convictions. A Prayer for the Dead and all that. Looking after your merry band of troops. There isn’t an evil bone in your body is there?” The General shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Or is there?” said Mr Scratch narrowing his eyes and tone to a whisper. “A military man with all the morally ambiguous decisions that requires? Perhaps there is something of the sinister in you. Perhaps something you may wish to confess? Or have confessed?”

  The General looked sternly at the ragged figure. “No. Everything I have done has been for God and Country. My record is unblemished and I sleep soundly at night.”

  “Just so,” smiled Mr Scratch warmly. “Just so.” He looked down at the cards and slowly resumed the trick. Shuffle. Place. Madman. Tower. Devil. “Then that only leaves us with one grim possibility doesn’t it, my darling General? That I am the Devil and you are the Madman.”

  “You aren’t the Devil,” sneered the General at the ragged fool in front of him.

  “No. I’m not the Devil. Let’s assume for a moment that I am though. Just for fun.”

  “Then that would make me the Madman.”

  “It would, yes my General. Of course, the very fact that we are sitting in a tin box, surrounded by the Damned, could of course mean that you lost your fragile mind and are sitting in a Breaker Island Military Hospital in a jacket with too-long sleeves gibbering and dribbling over yourself. Could that not be a possibility?”

  “No. My last psyche evaluation showed I was of sound mind,” said the General.

  “Well... you think it did.” They paused and looked at each other, then broke into spontaneous laughter. Natural and high, it lifted the atmosphere in the room, but the muggy sweat filled air stifled it back and they faded quickly to seriousness.

  Slowly, Mr Scratch resumed the trick, more now as habit than of any demonstration of the phenomena itself. The General watched the man’s hand flick in and out of the light as he nimbly continued. Shuffle. Place. Madman. Tower. Devil. Shuffle. Place. Madman. Tower. Devil.

  “Of course, if you are mad, that makes me the Devil,” said Mr Scratch after an interminable period of time. The General looked up from the cards and sat back in his chair.

  “Or very good at card tricks,” he said.

  “Or very good at card tricks,” smiled Mr Scratch.

  With a sudden, vicious speed, the General snapped the flat of his hand down on the table onto the pack that had just been placed there.

  “Or it’s a rigged deck,” said the General flatly.

  “Or it’s a rigged deck,” repeated Mr Scratch.

  The General flicked the cards over and spread them out along the width, expecting to see repeating runs of the same three cards. They looked together at the deck. The entire shuffled Tarot deck was there, with the three cards in question randomly placed within.

  The General goes pale. Mr Scratch takes the cards and resumes the trick. Over and over and over the cards turn and the General sits stock still staring at the yellowed hands as they turn and turn and turn. Unable to move, unable to tear his eyes away. Madman. Tower. Devil. Madman. Tower. Devil.

  “Of course, there could also be another more mundane explanation,” said Mr Scratch, his eyes glinting in the darkness.

  The last of the Zombies mill round in circles, tripping over the bodies of their army, defeated under the leaden force of the General’s Army. Finally a lone, dead college student looks up at the barrels above him and raises a blood stained arm to point at his aggressors. He opens his mouth as if to moan his lost comrades to him but is cut short as a hail of bullet rip through his skull. A sense of joy and relief fills the troops, another break before the final group is pulled, the bikes are readied to make their final sortie and disappear down the ramp for the final time. The chopper flies low over the compound, it wiggles by way of celebration to the troops below.

  The Lieutenant reached the bottom of the tower and marched to the command vehicle to give the General the good news. As he went past the operators, they were leaning back and stretching, taking a little time before the next batch. He stepped through the door and the guard saluted him.

  “The General still with our visitor?” asked the Lieutenant.