Enter the Rebirth (Enter the... Book 3)

by Thomas Gondolfi

  “Now hold still, okay?” I looked down into Harold’s eyes. All I saw was confusion and panic as they returned the gaze. I reached into the large pocket in the back of the seat, pulling out a thick, rubber glove . . . sliding my left hand in until it felt snug in its obnoxiously yellow home.

  I grabbed the straight razor from off the counter, gave it a couple side-wipes on my sleeve.

  “You see, small towns pass quick words.” I turned his head to expose the left side. With a deft slide, I swiped a clean shave down his cheek.

  “I learned from my grandmother other lessons, such as plants and biochemical reactions. Big words, I love them. She helped to heal so many.” I smiled as I paused in memory of her recent passing. “She was such an inspiration. I now understand the feeling. Of helping . . .” I nodded, looking down at him.

  “I helped a family here once get through a bout of fever. Something my mother could not shake.” I frowned. “Oh, don’t worry. Like I said, she passed when I was very young so the wound has healed. They pulled through just fine.”

  I continued to shave his face clean. His eyes still danced around, trying to grasp his situation. I could only grin back as a line of drool escaped out the corner of his mouth.

  “It’s funny how this world can be so punishing to the survivors. I only saved them to let them die a month later.” I turned his head to the right and began the same process. With a couple of practiced draws, his neck was now free of the ragged beard. The now clear neck showed a star tattoo.

  “They died at the hands of a desperate man. A drifter who found work where he could. He stopped in at their house looking for a handout. Before they could say anything, he pushed through and slaughtered them . . . right in front of their frightened daughter.” I looked down as I worked the lines of Harold’s sideburns. “Of course the guy was tweeking so hard, and fortunate for the little girl, he didn’t even notice her as he checked their pockets for anything of value before bolting back out the door.”

  I sighed as my work was done. Well, almost. I released all the levers to upright Harold in the barber chair. I walked back around and switched the razor out for a mirror.

  “This is some fine crafting, if I must say.” I walked the mirror around so Harold could look at his new image. He only could stare back at me with wide eyes.

  “Yeah, it’s good . . . right? I take a lot of pride in my work.”

  I watched as Harold’s chest slowly rose, the only other movement allowed at this point.

  “You see, chance has brought you to me, my friend. Little Jessica has told me enough times about the man who haunts her dreams. The man with the tattoo. The man who was badly stabbed in the leg in the fight by her father.”

  I went over and poured myself some tea, then returned to slump down in the chair next to his.

  “Like I said, I believe tradition is the only way to survive this horrible world. To keep us civilized. But there are still beasts that walk among us. I have to protect my community.” I looked over at him, his chest drawing breath ever so slightly.

  “Don’t worry, Harold, it will be over soon. That shaving cream is such a wonderful blend. Then we will see if you suffer more than they did.”

  An Inanimate Proposal?

  Nicholas Gregory

  Editor: Love can’t be diminished by any force, natural or not.

  I sit outside on my lover’s porch. A single rose rests beside me and a poem is clutched in my right hand. I am anxious for her to arrive home. My other hand is in my pocket, grasping onto the engagement ring. I hope that it will secure the love and commitment for our future together.

  Sweat drips down my forehead in steady beads, as if I were a plump man standing next to a bakery oven. I am scared about changing our relationship, but I do not know what else to do with my life after the war. No one else will love me the way she does. However, she tells me that something inside of myself has died on the battlefield.

  My thoughts stop and dwell on the night's intimidating presence. It holds the smell of burning Christmas trees, while there's a mysterious red light illuminating onto the porch, like the glow of a Blood Moon.

  I recall the night before I went away and my promise to her that I would make it back home, no matter what.

  The moment the bus drove me away to the war, she stood there alternating between crying and being solemn. She blew a final kiss, before I went out of sight for a year. That is what I thought of the whole time oversees—that one kiss that meant so much.

  Despite these memories and the present sweet sentiments, what if my love rejects me? What if she laughs at my poem? She would not do that, would she? This love of mine would not be that insincere. How long have I known her?

  It is then that I wonder if this is already a dead proposal. Does she love me still? That is the right question to be asking. Does she still love me after all the both of us have been through?

  At that final thought, her Cadillac pulls up. Unpleasant thoughts still seem to bounce around in my head, like white blood cells running away from death by a recursive virus.

  I take a step toward the vehicle, then another. I am veiled by the night, so she does not see me. It’s time to see if our hearts still beat in melody.

  She gets out of the car and her blond hair starts to blow in the wind, giving her the appearance of a flying angel.

  The woman I hope will be my bride sees me and gives a smile. I continue walking to her. I still do not know what to say; my bleeding heart is stuck in my throat.

  At arm’s length from her now, I look at her while holding onto the rose and the poem. She looks at my awkwardness, waiting.

  I do not say anything as I take the engagement ring out of my pocket. I hold it in front of her. She says nothing. Absolute silence passes for a few moments.

  Tears stream down her face. Taking my ring, she kisses my hand. She nods and gives her answer.

  “I will wait for you until that day comes and then we will be married.”

  Happiness washes over me like an Indian summer. She goes into the house and out of sight.

  It’s now time for my part of the deal. My heart continues to flutter as I make the way back to the post-war home that I have had since dying in the war.

  It's my plot in the cemetery. Arriving in the grave, I replace the dirt over myself, and close my eyes. I have a smile on my lips as I wait for the years until my fiancée is buried alongside me—until I find eternal happiness with my soulmate.

  Behind the Walls

  Chad Schimke

  Editor: They say absolute power corrupts absolutely,

  but can there be any halfway in power?

  Henry Couzens drove the converted school bus for the last ten miles, even after the gas gauge dipped below empty. He popped over a ridge, and as the barren highway descended into a hollow, he read a small sign a short distance away. “Litogot Township.” Funny, he’d never heard of that settlement before. The engine sputtered and died, stalling out on the shoulder. He slumped over the steering wheel, rubbing his hands on his bushy hair and thick stubble. Not again. He felt so frustrated. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and sighed.

  He heard his wife, Jane, call from the back, "Is everything all right?" He turned to look at her. Jane had brown hair and wore a threadbare dress, their toddler Billy balanced on her hip.

  “Yeah,” Henry said. “We’re out of gas. That’s all.”

  From the driver’s seat he looked at the walled township and the gap between the walls and forest. The thick perimeter was built from wood slats surrounded with neat, irrigated crop beds. He guessed . . . corn and wheat? He heard another voice behind him from his best friend, Leland.

  “Out of gas again, Henry?”

  “Yeah, I’m walking into town. Keep an eye on the bus.”

  “All right, sure.”

  Henry climbed out looking back at Leland. His friend had red hair and wore a tattered flannel shirt. Leland’s wife, Alison, stood beside him. The same age as Jane, she stood taller wi
th light hair and a similar plain dress.

  “Be careful,” Leland said. “This place looks intimidating.”

  “I’ll be fine. We can always continue on foot if we need to.”

  “I know. We can’t trust them yet is all I’m saying.”

  Henry walked toward the walls looking at a sentry post, main gate, and armed guard atop a tower. To his right, walls curved around back and train tracks disappeared behind the fortress. The sentry called down to him.

  "State your business." He pointed a rifle at Henry's head.

  “Ran out of gas a ways back. Have any to spare? I can put in some work.”

  “Are there more of you?” His voice was a dry monotone.

  “Yes.”

  "How many?"

  "Four families. Men, women, and children."

  “You have to interview with the mayor.”

  “Of course; you don’t know us. But trust me, we’re family men, not brigands.”

  Don’t think about what’s on the other side of the wall. He considered gleaning corn and going back to the bus. Just then, the gate creaked open. He had to calm himself down and resist the urge to get the hell out of there. Life on the road under the constant threat of brigand attack had made him hyper alert.

  “Thank you.” Henry stepped inside a second barrier, an interior wall, where there was another guard on the ground. He’d meet the mayor and after that decide to leave or stay.

  "Get him a quarter gallon of fuel,” the guard said. “You can park inside the enclosure overnight.”

  “Okay, I understand.”

  * * *

  Henry woke with a knock on the door. When he tucked his shirt into his pants and snapped the buckle, he was keenly aware of his ribs sticking out from under his skin. He slid the bus door open and walked down the steps to be greeted by a man wearing a cowboy hat.

  “Ed Firston.” The man shook firmly. “Everybody calls me ‘sheriff.’” The sheriff’s thinning black hair lay plastered on his scalp. He put his straw hat back on his head.

  “Henry Couzens; nice to meet you.”

  “Follow me to the mayor’s house, on the other side of the compound.”

  They walked through the township, with buildings on either side that must be pre-Die Back. The walls must have been built later, with some of the surrounding forest cleared away. The garage, warehouse, distillery, small houses, and apartments were clean and neat. Perfect, even.

  The back edge of the walls skirted alongside an imposing yellow brick building with an armed guard at the front door. The sheriff entered, tipping his hat at the guard, and Henry followed.

  “Mayor Litogot’s this way.”

  Down a dark hallway, Henry noticed a woman seated at a desk in front of an imposing set of doors.

  "Here to see the mayor?" she asked. While she got up to fetch the mayor, Henry waited in a proper den.

  What a phony. Henry didn’t trust her. Or anybody. At least, not yet anyway.

  A tall, slim man with dark eyes and hooked nose appeared, wearing a white dress shirt and black pants.

  “Welcome.” He shook hands softly. “Willis Litogot; pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “Likewise.” Henry let go of the clammy handshake and wiped his hand on his pants. “Thanks for feeding us last night.”

  “You can call me ‘mayor,’ everyone here does.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where’ve you been so far?”

  “We left Fordham Township after the food ran out. We’ve been on the road ever since.”

  “Five months?”

  He must’ve known they succumbed. “You got it.” He’d never heard stories about Litogot? And how’s this guy in charge. He seemed like a pantywaist, not a leader.

  “Well, we’re thriving. Plenty of crops, water, and livestock to go around. But the work’s hard, no way around it.”

  “Not surprising. You’ve created a fantastic community.”

  “It’s harder than you think, finding good people to do . . . certain types of work.”

  “Well, we’ve barely survived, much less thrived.” Keep it together, he wanted to make the right impression. “That’s why this place seems so appealing. A job well done.”

  Willis beamed. “What did you do before the Die Back? Work-wise . . .”

  “I was in the military.”

  “A military man, you say. You might be useful around here. “Sheriff, assign this man and his people work. We’ll try them out.”

  * * *

  The first week, Henry worked in the warehouse, unloading boxes of corn brought in on a hi-rail. The past few days he’d been on guard duty at the sentry post. Spending the day under the burning sun sucked. But eating real food like meat and bread made up for it. Now that protein and carbohydrate had returned to his diet, he could feel muscle mass returning to his arms and shoulders. He felt more like his old self than ever: tall, muscular, and good looking. How amazing what food and sleep in a real bed could do.

  He didn’t understand why the mayor trusted him so readily. He certainly didn’t trust the mayor and he didn’t like how the people weren’t talkative or friendly. His wife, Jane, worked in the kitchen with Alison. Something bothered Alison as the two had grown distant.

  Day before yesterday, he'd been told to try and get some sleep during the day if he could, since tonight he'd be working graveyard shift.

  Henry arrived for work at the mayor’s house, finding the sheriff waiting for him on the front steps.

  “Hi, Henry. Want to know what job you’ll be doing tonight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re hard, from living on the outside, not like other people living in this town.”

  “I’ve seen lots.”

  “Can you think for yourself?”

  “Sure I can. Good military training.”

  “Ayup.” The sheriff handed him a rifle, knife, and zip-ties. “You can keep these from here on out.”

  “Really?"

  “Yep. If there were enough pistols to go around, I’d give you one of those, too. Follow me; you’re on guard duty for Mayor Litogot tonight.”

  “Sounds good. And thank you.”

  “Stay anywhere here, in the hall, on the steps, or in the lobby. Got it?”

  “Sure.”

  Ed clamped a hand on Henry's shoulder and looked him square in the eye.

  "I know you're a good fighter. Now, let's see if I can trust you, too."

  The sheriff’s boots tramped up the back steps and trailed off. Hours passed and Henry paced. Murmurs of conversations flowed to the bottom of the steps. As always, boredom was the enemy of guard duty. So he crept upstairs past the dark landing and hid. Yeah, it was a risky thing to do, but he had to know more about these guys. Especially since he was being groomed. For what? Nervous as hell, he froze solid and caught a glimpse of them.

  The mayor sprawled on the couch, the sheriff sitting in a chair opposite to him. Two women sat on either side of the mayor, one of his skinny legs on hers. Were the women wearing makeup?

  “I spotted a new brigand camp on the ridge, a mile away from the wall.” That was the sheriff.

  “Brigands? Kill them all, and for fuck’s sake make sure none of them get away.” It was the mayor talking.

  “Ed should do it himself, take some gas and burn everything after they’re all dead. Please don’t leave a burned camp behind.” Henry didn’t know this voice but he fixed on a black profile blanked out by a side lamp.

  “Are you crazy?” The mayor, again. “Last time Ed tried to take on two brigands by himself, he almost died. All we’ve got is two guys to run field missions.”

  “What about Henry Couzens, the new guy?” said the third man.

  “He’s very promising,” said the mayor. “He’s stronger than you two put together.”

  So, he was being groomed. But for what? He started to return downstairs but caught a flash of movement. The woman in heels and a miniskirt turned, and he saw her face. Alison, Leland’s wife!
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  Shit! No fair. Why did he have to see her? He crept back to the lower level, opened the door and stepped out. He stood there all alone in the dark.

  That’s when Henry heard a noise, a soft scraping sound. What was that?

  A dangling knotted rope that trailed down the tall wall. A brigand! Henry recoiled from the intruder’s long hair and gross matted mess of a beard.

  The invader lowered himself and landed in the dirt. A ragged blanket tied under his chin trailed behind like a cape as he advanced toward the mayor's house. He struck the back window with a board. Before the shattered glass hit the ground, Henry put him in a headlock, smacking the vandal’s hand hard against the stoop, making him drop the board. Then, the light flicked on. Henry glanced up at the sheriff looking through the broken window.

  “Ayup. The new guy’s gonna be useful around here. That’s for sure.”

  * * *

  After his shift, Henry urgently wanted to catch Leland alone before anybody else arrived to work at the distillery.

  Henry called out in a loud whisper, “Leland!”

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  Leland unlocked the door and they entered one of two locked doors in town, this and the mayor’s house.

  Henry noticed a shelf full of bottles containing clear liquid. He read the note tacked underneath. “Don't touch.” That's weird. He gulped. Even though he hated telling his best friend about Alison, he knew it was the right thing to do.

  “Do you know where Alison was last night?”

  “Yeah, working the night shift at the kitchen.”

  Henry shook his head.

  “No? She was . . . where?”

  “At the mayor’s.”

  “Oh, fuck. Why would she lie to me?”

  “The mayor calls the shots, so he wanted her there. Don’t you wonder why the township is so guarded? Nobody breaks any rules.”

  “What about brigands?”

  “Yeah, but with these walls, how much of a problem could they really be? I caught one last night and they’re getting rid of it tonight after dark.”