by Joe McKinney
Taylor pointed to the sink. “Wash your face off first. I want to talk with you.”
Jacob ran water into his hands and splashed it into his face, scrubbing his mouth and cheeks with the heels of his hands. He took the towel down from the ring and dried his face. Then he put the towel back and looked at his reflection in the mirror. He didn’t recognize the face staring back at him.
“You did well today.”
Jacob turned to face his boss. “I killed a man.”
“And you saved twenty more.” Taylor put the matchstick back in his mouth and rolled it over to one corner. “I’m proud of you.”
“I feel sick.”
“Yep. Just pray you feel that way every time you have to do it.”
“I never want to do that again.”
“I can’t promise you that.”
Jacob nodded. “Yeah, I know.”
“You know, I’m not the only one you impressed today. I’ve been talking for the last few hours with the town council about you.”
Jacob didn’t say anything to that. All he wanted to do was drown himself in some of Kelly Banis’s infamous bathtub gin.
“Folks have got questions, though.”
“What kind of questions?”
“What you did today, out there in the square, was reaffirm the Code that’s kept us alive all these years.”
“I know that,” Jacob said. He sighed. The Code had been on his mind all day, and he’d already covered this ground many times. The whole sound of it was turning sour.
“Now hold on. Give me a chance to speak. People want to know why a man who so ably filled the Code’s hardest task is so keen on leaving.”
“Leaving? What . . . who said anything about leaving?”
“Well, ain’t that what you and some of the others been talking about the last ten years? You and Kelly Banis and Nick Carroll.”
“You mean the Expansionists? What . . . I don’t understand. You want to talk about this now?”
“Why not?”
Jacob started to speak, but he didn’t know what to say. He felt blindsided. “Sheriff, with all due respect, sir, I don’t really feel like a political discussion right now.”
“And why is that?”
Jacob stared at his boss. Where to begin? “Oh, I don’t know. Because I just put a man to death. Talking politics with that hanging over my head, it feels obscene somehow.”
Taylor chewed on his matchstick a moment before taking it out and looking at it like a bad habit he couldn’t shake. He flicked it into the waste can with a practiced motion. Why he even bothered to throw them away anymore Jacob could hardly say. There’d be another in his mouth five minutes from now. Was it any wonder they were running out? Again?
So he wanted to talk politics. Jacob shook his head. Fine. So be it. The expansionist question was endlessly complex, but really it boiled down to one simple truth. Arbella had survived the zombie apocalypse. They’d done well for themselves. They’d turned a deserted town into a new home, and there, they’d not only survived, but thrived. They’d walled up the town and turned every available resource toward the maintenance and the prosperity of their community. The Code was the formal statement of that purpose, its manifesto and its constitution, for lack of a better analogy. And the program had worked.
Now, thirty years later, they had become so successful that Arbella’s old walls couldn’t hold them anymore. Jacob and quite a few of his friends, nearly all of them of the younger generation, now of age, believed that the answer to the problem was expansion. They were living in a Malthusian pressure cooker. It hadn’t exploded yet, but it was only a matter of time. The First Generation had already admitted the necessity of expansion. Jacob’s fight down by the river that very morning was the result of a small expansionist program organized by the town council, though of course you’d never hear any of them saying that the purpose of the work had been to expand Arbella’s borders. The work was an improvement, they’d say, nothing more.
The First Generation, Jacob’s mother included, invariably came back with some version of the same tired old truism. Our strategy saved our lives, and it has worked brilliantly since then. The world out there wants to kill us. No good can come from pushing into that world. You are safe here. You have a good and a happy home here. Outside those walls you’ll find only death.
Jacob and his friends had argued till they were blue in the face, but the First Generation refused to budge.
“You get mad real easy, Jacob,” Taylor said. “I want you to work on that. Being quick to anger never did a cop a bit of good, believe me. I’ve seen plenty of good cops throw their jobs on the old compost heap because they couldn’t control their temper.”
“Look, Randall—”
“Are we on a first-name basis now?”
Jacob stared at him, trying to gauge the man’s motives. Jacob had once heard Bill Christie boast at a Christmas party that he had fought next to Randall Taylor during the Battle of the Gates. He’d stood there shoulder to shoulder with Sheriff Taylor, gunning down zombies as they climbed over the barricades in an endless wave. “Me and him,” Christie had boasted, thumping his chest, “we’re tight.”
“Then go and slap him on the back,” someone from the crowd had challenged.
“Yeah, do it!” someone else said.
Like a drunken blimp on a crooked course, Christie had wandered over to where Taylor was talking with a few of the town leaders and slapped the sheriff merrily on the back, nearly causing Taylor to spill his tea all over Wanda Shane, head nurse of Arbella’s hospital.
Taylor had turned on the man and leveled such a withering stare at him that Christie immediately dropped his hand. He muttered some sort of incoherent apology and then shrank away, utterly embarrassed.
But Jacob wasn’t a drunk, and he wasn’t some minor hero of the First Generation.
He said, “If this is an on-the-job talk, forgive me, it’ll be Sheriff Taylor from here on out. But if you’re going to come in here while I’m feeling like a warmed-over dog turd and ambush me with questions about Expansionism, then, yeah, it’s gonna be on a first-name basis. So you tell me, sir, what’s it gonna be?”
Randall Taylor looked at him for a long moment. When Jacob didn’t crack, he nodded, pulled another matchstick from his shirt pocket, and jammed it into his mouth.
“Do you know why I had you handle the execution today?”
“Because I’m chief deputy. It’s the job of the chief deputy to do all executions.”
“Is it?”
Jacob felt lost again. What, exactly, was he being asked?
“It’s part of the Code,” Jacob offered hesitantly.
“Is it? Where is that written?”
“It isn’t. It’s just always been that way.”
“Has it? I did the first three executions myself. Men that fought with me at the Battle of the Gates. Men I thought I trusted.”
“Yes, sir, I know that.”
“Then how can it be tradition?”
Jacob desperately searched his memory for some explanation, some light he could turn on this issue, but all he could manage was a shrug.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Did they teach you about John Adams when you were in school?”
“The American president?”
Taylor nodded. “Second president of the United States, yes.” He pulled the matchstick from his mouth and flicked it into the waste can. “Adams lived through the American Revolution, and then helped build a country out of what was left over, and when he reflected back on that, he gave what I think to be one of the most balanced takes on the importance of politics in everyday life ever put to paper. He said: ‘I must study politics and war that my sons may have the liberty to study mathematics and philosophy, geography, natural history, and naval architecture, navigation, commerce, and agriculture, in order to give their children a right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, statuary, tapestry and porcelain.’ It all comes down to
politics, son. Get that wrong, and the best of intentions ain’t worth nothing.”
He pulled out the little box where he kept his matchsticks from his shirt pocket, opened it, looked at the contents ruefully, then slid it closed and put the box back.
“Jacob, I’m taking the long way around to say this, and that ain’t my style, but I don’t know any other way. I had you take care of Jerry Grieder because I needed to see for myself that you were ready. That you were prepared to be that second generation of leaders John Adams talked about. You proved today that the Code will survive to the next generation, which is why the town council approved my decision to name you as my successor.”
Jacob’s mouth opened. He said, “What?”
“You heard me right. You’re the obvious man for the job, and after all you did today, ain’t nobody gonna doubt the logic of it.”
“I . . . I don’t know what to say. You’re not ready to retire. You’re still—”
“I’m ready to retire, Jacob. I’ll be seventy come October. I’ve worn a badge nearly fifty years now. Trust me, that’s a long time.”
Jacob let out a long breath. “Craziest day ever,” he said.
“Well, not so fast. We still got this question about expansion that needs answering first. The town council all agreed you’re the man for the job, but they’re troubled by the fact that you want to leave so bad.”
“You said that before. Where’s that coming from? I don’t want to leave. Nobody said anything about leaving. All we want to do is explore what’s out there. It’s been thirty years. We don’t know anything about the world we live in. An expedition is all we want, a chance to look around and see how far we can expand our town.”
Taylor took the matchstick box out again and jammed one into his mouth. It was a practiced motion so casually done that Jacob wondered if the man even realized he was doing it.
“I saw those zombies you shot today, the really old ones. They had to be twelve or thirteen years old at least. The zombies are lasting a lot longer than we thought. Isn’t that proof enough that we don’t want to go beyond the walls?”
“No, exactly the opposite. Don’t you see? We have no idea what’s out there. Maybe it’s still as bad as it was. But maybe it isn’t. Either way, we have to know. We’re going to have to do it soon, too. The resources we’ve got won’t support our population for more than another few years. We could end up starving here. Or worse.”
Taylor nodded. “I know all that’s true. That may sound funny coming from me, but I do know it’s true. I suspect I’ve known it for years now, just haven’t wanted to admit it to myself. That’s why I learned that John Adams quote, so I could use it on the town council. Me, and all the others on the council, we studied politics and war so that we could give you the Code and this town. Now it’s your turn to study geography and navigation and all the rest of it. You get to be our Lewis and Clark, Jacob. We’re a long way from tapestry and porcelain still, but with you at the helm, I think we’ll get there.”
“I don’t understand. What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I got the council to agree to your expedition.”
“What? Are you kidding?”
“Nope.”
“Oh, my God.” Jacob laughed. He wanted to grab Taylor by the shoulders and shake him. Or hug him. God help him, even kiss him. He was suddenly so excited he could barely stay in his skin.
“Well, don’t go running off the reservation just yet,” Taylor said. “Council’s asked for a full report on what you expect to achieve, what resources you’ll need to make it happen, and who all will be going with you, and they want it to be delivered in session tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow?” That wiped the smile from Jacob’s face. “But how can I prepare a full report by tomorrow morning? I need time for that.”
“All you’ve done for the last ten years is talk about this, Jacob. How much more time do you need?”
“Yeah, but . . .” Jacob’s mind was racing. He was stunned, still unable to process his good fortune. There was so much to do, so many people to talk to. He laughed. “I can’t believe I’m finally gonna get to lead this expedition.”
“Well, not so fast on that, either.”
Jacob’s smile drained away. “What do you mean? You’re gonna let me go, aren’t you?”
“Of course. But you’re gonna be coleader.”
“Co . . . ?”
“Yep,” Taylor said. “I’m going with you.”
5
Word traveled fast about the council’s change of heart. Kelly Banis and her husband, Barry, offered up their house for a party, and promised to provide as much of Kelly’s famous—or infamous, depending on who you asked—bathtub gin as the group could drink. It was a nice night, clear and crisp but not too cold, and by eight o’clock there were already enough people to force the party out onto the front porch and into the street, and a good many of them were already drunk.
Jacob didn’t go straight over to the party. He went home first and ate a small dinner of bacon and pickled vegetables from his mother’s garden. Then he changed out of his uniform and into clean jeans, a sweatshirt, and a light jacket, and headed over to Nick Carroll’s place on Lester Street, over by the north wall. Nick had promised to wait on him so they could go over together.
Nick was sitting on his front steps drawing in a sketchbook when Jacob walked up.
“You ready?” Jacob said as he came up the front walk.
“Yep, just about.”
Jacob climbed the steps so he could see what Nick was drawing. On the page, rendered in pencil, was an amazing likeness of a pretty young girl, nude from the waist up, her fingers running through her hair.
“What do you think?” Nick asked.
“Uh, nice tits.”
“You recognize her?”
Jacob squinted at the picture. He knew the face. He’d seen her around.
On the name, though, he was drawing a blank. “Well, I . . .”
“That’s Gina Houser.”
Jacob looked again. Nick was a talented artist, and now that he had a name to put to the picture, he could totally see it. He’d just never given Gina much of a look before. She was still a kid.
“Gina’s kind of young, isn’t she?”
“She’s nineteen.”
“Well, yeah. Did she . . . pose for that?”
“Damn straight she did,” Nick said, and shot him a wicked grin. “She does a whole lot more, too.”
“But isn’t she dating that kid from, uh, what’s his name?”
“Ted Roth, over at the Howth Farm. Yeah, they’re dating. But a girl her age, you know, likes a little fun now and then. And what her boyfriend don’t know won’t hurt him.”
“Really? Nick, what are you doing?”
“Don’t be jealous.”
“Whatever,” Jacob said. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Okay.” Nick closed the sketchbook. “Let me put this up.”
Jacob watched his friend enter his house. Nick was a blowhard, always had been. He was only five-nine, and his forehead was scarred with acne from his teenage years, but he talked loud and he talked well and for some reason the girls seemed to like him. He had no doubt that young Miss Gina Houser had soaked up his attention, loving every second of it. She wouldn’t have been the first. Not by a long shot.
As he stared into the darkened recesses of Nick Carroll’s living room, a memory rose up in Jacob’s mind. They’d gotten into a fight when they were sixteen and Jacob had come away with a black eye, a bleeding ear, and a mouth that looked like a tomato somebody had crushed beneath their heel. Nick had barely had a scratch on him. Jacob couldn’t even remember now exactly what was said to start the fight. They’d just been hanging out with a group of boys, waiting for a baseball game to start, and some of the other guys started kidding Nick about his last name, calling it a girl’s name. Nick seemed to take the ribbing pretty well, but when Jacob joined in it had sent Nick over the edge. Next thing Jacob kn
ew they were circling each other inside a ring of boys all yelling, “Fight, fight!” Then the ass beating started.
That’d been a long time ago, twenty years now, and they’d been through a lot together since then. They’d dated some of the same girls, fought again over some of the same girls, only to come together again and again, always the two of them. They’d worked in salvage together, gone outside the walls together. They were tight.
Still, for Jacob at least, and maybe for Nick, too, there was always that fight. It lurked there in the past, in the back of his mind, the way failures sometimes do. It had cast a long but subtle shadow over their relationship, one that made their friendship one of always seeking dominance over the other, rather than understanding, and Jacob couldn’t help but feel that this latest conquest of Nick’s, this teenage girl with the nice pair and the pretty face, was just another way of Nick’s to show he was more of a man than Jacob.
And then Nick was standing in the doorway.
“Hey, man, you all right? You look like you’re someplace else.”
Jacob forced a smile. “I’m good. You ready?”
“Let’s go party.”
The walk over to Kelly’s place was short, the talk small. They rounded the corner and were hit with a wall of drunken voices. A cheer went up when they arrived. As they walked into Kelly and Barry’s front yard, friends ran up to shake Jacob’s hand and clap him on the back. Memories of his lost fight with Nick started to fade, and despite all he’d been through that day, Jacob felt kind of loose, ready for a good time.
“Hey, Jacob,” Nick said, a hand on his shoulder. He pointed to the north. “Look up there.”
Jacob followed the line of Nick’s finger. Kelly and Barry lived about four hundred yards from the north wall. A good portion of it could be seen from her front yard. And on the wall, a rifle slung over his shoulder, was Sheriff Taylor, making his rounds. His nightly tour along the town’s walls was a fixture of life in Arbella.
“You ready for that?” Nick said.
“You mean walking the wall every night? You think that’s something I should keep doing?”