Dead Things

by Darst, Matt

  “Please, call me Burt,” he responds.

  “Okay, Burt, please collect all of the wrappers. They need to be buried. Cover the area with dead leaves and debris to blend with the surroundings. Anne?”

  “Yes?” replies the younger girl, a blonde who Van watches intently.

  “Please distribute the canteens, one per group of two, and then the rear.” Wright declines a canteen for herself. “They’ll need to be filled at the next stream. Everyone else: be ready to move out in fifteen minutes.”

  They arrange themselves in a circle that evening, head-to-head in a small clearing, Van making sure he’s near the blonde. They are beat. Wright has marched like this countless times before, but even she feels the fatigue tugging at her, as if the Earth’s gravitational pull has been magnified.

  There is an amazing light show in the works for those who can stave off sleep and watch the sky for a few minutes more. Streaks of fire, meteors, move west across a chandelier canvas.

  Van introduces himself to Anne. He tells her he’s Roger Gerome’s son. That always reels them in.

  But this one is different. She’s not interested in his status. She asks Van in a whisper if he ever watches the sky.

  “No, not really,” he replies. They continue to whisper as the others slumber.

  Anne tells him of comets and meteors, of the Leonids, of the fall of nations, and the birth of kings. She tells him how their destiny is foretold by the sky. She tells him of a saying her mother taught her: “As above, so below.”

  Wright hears every blasphemous word.

  **

  The next morning, Ian’s left foot is sore. He has a blister, and it encompasses both his big and secondary toes. It is pink and full, bubbling even across the ball of his foot.

  “Yuck!” Van cries, gagging. “Does it hurt?”

  Ian shrugs. “Not so much. It is more uncomfortable than anything.”

  “Hey, Anne,” Van mockingly calls. “You’ve got to see this.”

  Ian is surprised. He’s already on a first-name basis with her? “Van!” he objects.

  “Take it easy, man,” Van says. “She’s out of earshot.” He’s right. Anne did not hear him. She’s busy talking to Jessica. “Go ahead and pop it,” Van urges.

  Ian shakes his head. He’s going to wait it out.

  Van is unconvinced. “Come on, man, you got to pop that thing.”

  Ian glowers. “I’m not popping it. All I need is an infection. Shit, I’ll lose my leg to gangrene or something out here.”

  But Van has a first aid kit. “I’ll lend you some antibiotic ointment,” he says.

  It is Ian’s turn to be incredulous. “You have a first aid kit? And I’m carrying your shoes? What are you doing with a first aid kit?”

  Van smirks. “Apparently saving your leg. It’s your lucky day.”

  Ian shrugs. “Well, I don’t have a needle, anyway.”

  “I’ve got a sewing kit, too.” Van replies. “We’ll sterilize the needle with my lighter.”

  Ian’s eyes are wide. “You have a sewing kit, too?”

  Van sighs. “Let’s not go through this again. Better pop it now. Look, you’re my friend and all, but don’t expect me to carry your ass, literally or figuratively.”

  The needle’s hot. It pierces Ian’s skin effortlessly with a slight hiss. Pus flows easily from the ingress. The volume of fluid that erupts from the wound amazes him. It streams down his elevated foot. He begs Van, “Do you have something I can wipe this with?”

  “I don’t know,” Van replies, rummaging through the first aid kit.

  “How about that red shirt?” Ian asks, smiling.

  “Funny.” Van finds gauze and tosses it Ian’s way. “That polo is worth more than your life.”

  Ian wipes the area clean with some gauze. He digs a small hole, then buries it. He applies Neosporin, and finishes up with a bandage. The polo lives to see another day.

  Van and Anne are walking side by side. He dresses nice, she thinks. Of course, his father is Roger Gerome.

  She wants to talk about things that girls like. Not dolls, dresses, or the stuff of kids. She wants to talk about him.

  But Van wants Anne to tell him more about her. The quickest way to bed a girl is to be a good listener. “Tell me more about comets and meteors and stuff.”

  She shouldn’t have said a word to him yesterday, but she senses he is someone she can trust, even if he is a little vain. She’s makes him promise to never repeat a word.

  She starts with a quote. Shakespeare. “‘When beggars die, there are no comets seen; the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.’ Isn’t that pretty? Doesn’t it just make your heart melt?”

  What does it mean?

  It’s a reference to astrology, using the position of stars and planets to understand people and predict events.

  Van laughs. Right. “You don’t really believe that stuff, do you?”

  Anne is taken aback. Van wasn’t so damning of her views last night. He wasn’t so cavalier as he held her hand furtively under the cloak of night.

  No, he admits, because he was on the verge of sleep. Her voice was a lullaby to him, but her words held no meaning.

  She’s hurt. Hurt because of his insensitivity, but hurt more because she does believe. She believes in what her mother taught her. Her mother wouldn’t have sacrificed so much for just an astrological whim or caprice. And sacrifice, Stella Mayberry did...

  The inquisition came early one spring morning, nearly fifteen years past. They took Stella Mayberry prisoner in shackles, hecklers decrying her as a witch as they rode away.

  Anne was taken to be cared for by the church.

  It was one piece of a greater power play, a complex attempt by the fledgling church to consolidate power and eliminate competition for the souls—if not the hearts and minds—of the people.

  The ends, if not the means, were defensible.

  One of every three Americans polled prior to the New Order believed in the power of astrology. In the years following the plague, that number exploded to nearly one of every two survivors.

  The church was losing ground. It needed parishioners, it needed donations, it needed missions. It needed to prey upon public fear to fill the empty pews and the coffers.

  The inquisitors publicized their capture of Mayberry and hastily tried her for heresy. Statten prosecuted her himself, accusing her of providing readings of horoscopes and natal charts. Mayberry never denied this fact.

  They made the case that her philosophy was sacrilegious. Stella Mayberry practiced divination, predicting the future for a list of clients whose names she never supplied, even as her fingers were broken.

  She pled her case, relying on history, and the movement of planets and stars, as well as comets and meteors, to support her beliefs.

  She could not work from notes. She could not hold a pen. It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t have been able to turn a page anyway.

  She did her best.

  The ancient Greeks and Chinese trusted astrology to divine their fates. They used celestial bodies, especially comets, to portend disasters.

  Disaster: the word itself means “ill-starred.”

  Shooting stars are malefic messengers, cosmic wildcards that prophesize paradigm shifts. Consensus exists from Ptolemy to Bonatti. The train of a comet predicts war and desolation: the fall of Jerusalem, the eruption of Vesuvius, the deaths of the Emperor of Rome and of King Ibrahim ben Ahmet, the Black Plague, the signing of the Declaration of Independence (a blow to England’s colonial intentions) the spread of influenza (a term used to describe illnesses “influenced by the planets”), the Civil War, the fall of the Alamo, the United States’ loss of influence in Southeast Asia, the failure of the U.S. automobile industry, fuel shortages, and the rise of the oil cartel in 1973, the end of the Cold War, countless coups and assassinations, extreme weather conditions, earthquakes, and on...

  And on…

  And on.

  Mayberry cited even
t after event, each meteor falling like a locust leaving desolation in its wake.

  Statten and the inquisitors never objected to her lengthy discourse. No, it pleased the court to have every last word on the record. She was doing their job for them. With every breath, Stella Mayberry further sealed her fate.

  She explained how astrology was once almost indistinguishable from astronomy. Astronomy, a hard science, has its roots in prediction and divination.

  This did not help. The only thing the church hates more than other religions is science.

  She was adjudicated a pagan. “Only God can influence life on Earth,” the synod ruled, not planets or other interstellar movements.

  Even after they tied her to a stake, stoned her with rocks, and burned her arms, torso, and face, she did not recant or provide the names of her customers.

  Only after the stomachs of the spectators collectively turned at the sight of this beautiful woman literally melting before them, did the synod grant a reprieve. She was spared, the first to lose her citizenship in this new church-state.

  Citizenship. Obtaining that stature doesn’t necessarily convey benefits, but it does ensure one’s privileges are not limited. Non-citizens—so-called conscientious objectors (for how can someone object to the destruction of a ghoul?), draft dodgers, and others like Stella Mayberry whose citizenship was revoked by the church—are fated to a lesser life. If they are able to work, they are doomed to the worst and most dangerous of jobs, like working the coalmines or maintaining the radio and phone towers in the forbidden zone. The towers are the only link to places like Padre Island, Captiva, and the Keys. Without them, communication to the colonies would be lost.

  Anne still remembers when she was returned to her mother six months later. How could she forget? Her mother was half wrapped in rags, like some creature from Egypt in a creature feature. How she cried when her mother pulled her hard against her despite the immense pain it must have caused.

  So, does Anne really believe this stuff?

  Anne can’t muster a reply. She starts to weep silently.

  “Anne, I was just joking around,” Van says. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sorry. I can be a real idiot sometimes. Just ask Ian. He’ll tell you. But I never really mean anything by it. Honest!”

  She sniffles and nods.

  Van smiles and gropes clumsily for her hand.

  She has to smile back, not so much as a response to Van, but in recognition of her convictions. She knows something deep in her heart that the doubt of others cannot shake: she is here, now, for some greater, yet unknown, purpose.

  She knows this. She’s read it in the stars.

  **

  They move north along a deer path, Ian noting the sun’s passing through foliage above. A patchwork of light and dark shadows passes across his left cheek as evening approaches, mimicking camouflage.

  As dusk sets in, the terrain abruptly changes. The bogs and marshes that they battled most of this day and the last give way to sturdier trees and rockier earth. It reminds Ian of parts of eastern Kentucky, places he and Josh hunted with his uncle over long weekends.

  For Kari Wright, the change of scenery carries more weight. Her face remains impassive, concealing her private delight. Although the hills will provide challenges, they also provide cover. The marshes and their murky waters are better suited to hunters than their quarry. The castaways have been lucky, so far, to have not come under attack by predators, natural or otherwise.

  And if Wright is correct, the deciduous forest means that the plane went down much farther north than she originally calculated. While there are likely wetlands ahead, the party is far abreast of New Orleans and Baton Rouge. Those cities are surely teeming…

  They are graced with a full moon and cloudless sky. The blue glow allows them to drive several more miles into the night before setting up a camp upon a projecting crag.

  Fortunate, for it puts distance between them and the shadows that doggedly stalk them.

  Chapter Six: Walk Like an Egyptian

  Day three, and Ian is alone in line again, trailing the gang at the rear, no partner with whom to share whispered confidences.

  Van is two pairs, perhaps twenty paces, ahead, and Ian occasionally catches him leaning in to murmur into Anne’s slight ear.

  She covers her mouth, attempting to stifle laughter, and Van flashes the patented Gerome smile.

  Anne rises on her toes and utters mysteries into his ear. Her balance slightly off, her chest presses against Van’s arm and stomach.

  Van is a womanizer. Granted, he’s no Casanova, but he’s a “player,” as they used to say. Van’s life is measured by conquests. He counts the skirts he chases and tallies the skirts he catches.

  Ian wonders if Van would be this way, so willing to break young hearts, if he hadn’t lost his mother at such a young age. He winces as he watches Van slide a hand around Anne’s waist.

  Literally and figuratively, Ian is last in line.

  He cannot dwell on it now, though. Wright has just signaled them to seek cover.

  **

  U.S. 167 bifurcates Louisiana, running north and south. Wright happens upon it much like most archaeological discoveries: accidentally. Surprisingly, its lanes remain relatively smooth and unbroken. She takes out her compass. Follow the road north, and they would likely be on their way home.

  “Let’s go!” Van urges. He and Anne are next in line behind Wright. He begins to rise from his belly, but he feels a hand firm on his back, Wright pressing him to the ground.

  “Stay in the reeds,” she says quietly. “We don’t know what’s out there yet.” She knows the ghouls are territorial. It is safer, here, at the edge of trees, thirty or so yards from the highway itself.

  She looks up the interstate. The woods runs along the roadway, rising and falling with man-made embankments carved from the limestone decades ago. Here and there it gives way to open prairie. There, in the grassland, they will be the most vulnerable. Wright will need to steer them to the hem of the woods, avoiding whenever possible the open plain.

  In the rear, Ian is becoming a master of the army crawl, clawing his way forward on elbows and knees, ass close to the ground. His reptilian crawl is accentuated by his color; he is stained green and yellow from his chin to his shins. Ian is so adept, he often threatens to overtake the pair before him.

  Averaging their years, the Hestons would be considered middle-aged. Mr. Heston is the older of the two. Despite being a doctor, he carries too much mass about his mid-section. Heart attack potential, Ian thinks.

  Ms. Heston is, well, a doctor’s wife. She is ten years his junior and overly tan with a practiced smile full of large, luminescent teeth. Once, she was probably striking, but repeated augmentation has left her with a constant look of surprise, a weathered version of Munch’s “the Scream.”

  Worse, the Hestons are painfully slow crawlers. Ian is forced to move at a snail’s pace, sometimes stopping entirely, before budging. These lulls, alone and defenseless in the dense grass, are unnerving. Ian feels vulnerable, like a turtle forced to lie on its back in the sun. He waits anxiously for the pair to noisily progress.

  Mr. Heston carries his ass too high—a beacon in the mid-day sun, a neon sign that screams, “Fresh Meat.” His body thrashes about, causing waves of grass to crash about him like ocean swells.

  Ms. Heston is no better. She yelps and chirps every time a bramble catches her hair or her elbows strike a pebble.

  Together they are sure to draw a horde of the dead. Never would a meal come more easily.

  The Hestons halt yet again, this time near the top of a slight slope, barely concealed. The prairie grass is much thinner here than in the valleys. Ian is annoyed, but, as the minutes pass, his anger gives way to alarm. Just what is happening up there? Are we separated from the group? Panic creeps up his spine.

  And then he sees movement. Just to the right of the couple and slightly farther up the hill, something is stirring, shifting through the grass,
advancing on them.

  The couple is oblivious of the danger along their shoulder. Ian wants to warn them, but the lump in his throat conspires with his better judgment to stay his call. Perhaps the creature will pass and leave them undetected. No, it moves forward still.

  Frantically Ian searches about for something, anything to use as a weapon. Dead grass. A twig. A large clod of dried dirt plowed decades ago. It will have to do. Ian grabs it, prepares to engage…or flee.

  The grass before him undulates in little bursts. It creeps past the Hestons, moving with intention towards Ian. He sees something taking shape through the blades now six or so feet away.

  Ian’s heart races, beating hard in his chest, drumming against his rib cage. It will surely hear him. He starts to inch forward, to take this monster on before it is upon him. Maybe the Hestons will alarm the others once he is engaged.

  It is just an arm’s length away.

  Then…it speaks.

  “What are you doing?” it whispers.

  It is a hushed voice. A woman’s voice. Wright’s voice.

  “Christ!” he growls, dropping his wedge of mud. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  Wright edges forward, revealing herself in inches. She stares at him, raises a critical eyebrow. “You were going to kill me with…a dirt clod?” She can’t help but smirk.