Head Dead West

by Oliver Atlas

  Sheriff Sanchez. I’m too tired to be surprised. Milly must feel the same. Besides, we both want to hear Buzz’s story. Nobody comes back from zombie infection.

  “If you say so, Sheriff,” says Buzz, relaxing again. “The short of it’s this: we were on our way to Union Powder with a shipment of chum when we took on a volley of shots, enough to sink us fast. We turned back toward New Pokey and radioed our situation and heading. Well—ha!—the problem with chum is that it works! We had a big old swarm of dead-heads after us before we were a hundred feet above ground.”

  I’m confused and have to break in: “You had a radio? I thought that level of tech was illegal in the Territory.”

  “Well, it all depends,” says Buzz, smacking his head gently, apparently trying to shake the pain loose. “ODOZ has access to all kinds of tech. The heat-tracking missiles, for instance. But the tech we’re allowed all depends on where a particular mission falls in the regs. Chum is top priority cargo. That means extra missiles, a radio, flares. I even get to fly with a field agent. Most of the trips I contract fall under the normal steam-tech grid. I fly alone, with no chum at all, and just enough missiles to fight off one attack and blow the ship if I go down. Anyway, by the time we skidded in, we’d already rigged the missiles to blow the cargo. All we had to do was hightail it to a vantage point and wait for the kaboom—you know, to watch and make sure the Duchess didn’t secure any of that tech, or the chum.”

  “As in shark chum, right?”

  The Sheriff chimes in from the door. “Mr. Prose, out here folks have an O on their ID for Organ Donor. They also have a C for chum. You basically donate your body to the control and study of zombies. Out here, chum is both highly valuable and highly honored. It’s like an urn with street value.”

  “Pretty much,” agrees Buzz. “And going down with a full load of it usually means easy going. You can practically walk though a crowd of dead-heads, they’re so eager to reach the chum. But it can also lead to being careless. Me and Carlock got careless. We camped out with a sniper rifle on a rise above the balloon, waiting to see if any Bokor would come trying to scavenge the wreck. We got to marveling at how many dead-heads could pile into the basket when—”

  “When you got jumped by a Screamer,” guesses Milly.

  Buzz nods in concession. “Yep. We got jumped by a Screamer. Thankfully for me, Carlock was a germaphobe, always washing his hands with sanitizer, always smelling like a fresh plucked peach. We were lying there, thinking every zombie in the Alley was right in front of us, but that sonbitch came from behind and fell right on top of him, almost in a swoon. I tried to pull it off but it was already into his neck and it raked my arm and left me alone. Sometimes it pays to be a sweaty slob. I guess I smell more dead than alive. Anyway, I knew I had about two hours before I was done, so I grabbed the weapons and started hoofing it. I remember collapsing beside the main road, getting ready to blow my own brains out, but I must have passed out first. That’s typical. People always wait too long.”

  The door squeals open. “Thanks, Buzz,” says the Sheriff. “Josie will see you over to the Doc.”

  Josie and the big orderly are silhouetted in the open doorway. “Ms. Ruse? Mr. Prose? I’m so sorry about that,” she says. “Sometimes I get a little ditzy and play right into that old blond stereotype.”

  “That’s okay, Josie,” says Milly, standing up. “Sometimes, I guess mistakes turn out for the best. Meeting Buzz here has made everything . . . worthwhile. Sheriff,” she says, half afraid. “The girl who was with us?”

  “Ms. Ruse,” he says, shooing Josie and Buzz away, “I’d trust that girl with Yaverts over you any day. Yaverts is a scoundrel, but he’s one of the toughest and wiliest characters in the Territory. Other than women and booze, his loyalties compete with nothing. He’ll see the girl safely to Bentlam. You can trust me on that. But you? Can I trust you? Your loyalties are harder to figure out. Your trustworthiness is harder to discern.”

  His hand stays on the cell door, as though deciding which side of it we’ll be on when he leaves.

  “Tell me this,” he says. “And you’d damn well better tell me true, or you and Mr. Prose will get your chance to philosophize and argue over quite a few more Sleepers. Why did you think it was so important to snoop on me?”

  In the darkness, Milly is silent. She folds her arms and stares. Then, just as the Sheriff makes to shut the door, she says, “Schlozfield. Because I wanted to see if maybe you were connected.”

  “Why?” says the Sheriff, his tone flat and unreadable.

  “Because . . . ” but Milly hesitates.

  “This isn’t truth or dare, Ms. Ruse. This is truth or die.”

  Milly nods. “Then the truth. I want to find Schlozfield to help him with his work and I wondered if you two were connected. But I couldn’t just come out and ask. For all I knew, you’d arrest me on the spot.”

  The Sheriff chuckles darkly. “Remember all that about reading people, Mr. Prose? Well, I think our feisty friend here is telling the truth. If I’m wrong, you still might end up getting eaten by a Screamer in close quarters. But in the meantime, let’s get you the hell out of here and up to my office for some blankets and hot elixir.”

  After we’ve marched out of the dungeon and are entering his large, warm office, the Sheriff says, “So, Ms. Ruse, you know about my secret experiments. It’s only fair to tell me more about your secret interests in Dr. Schlozfield.” The Sheriff settles into a worn leather wingback and gestures toward a matching davenport.

  We sit down and Josie enters with a tray stacked with meat, cheese, bread, and fruit wedges, centered around three small glasses of amber elixir. With an apologetic smile, she sets the tray between us on the couch and leaves again.

  “Ms. Ruse?” persists the Sheriff, picking up a slice of apple. “Your secret?”

  “Hey,” I say, reaching over to take a fiery sip of the amber liquid in an effort to buy Milly time. “Yow! Woo! Gharrrr!”

  “Not a drinking man, are you, Mr. Prose?”

  “Only during times of emphasis, Sheriff. And for the record, I want to emphasize that I’m only here as Milly’s friend. I don’t have a secret.”

  The man’s wiry brows shoot up. “I’m sure you do, Mr. Prose. But the secret that matters most right now belongs to Ms. Ruse.” He stares at us for a minute before cracking a nervous smile. “Milly . . . throw me a bone here. I looked you up. I know you’ve been interning with Dr. Nandra at Rutgers.”

  Milly folds her arms. “So?”

  “So . . . I know Nandra’s dissertation was titled The Plight of Living Dead Humanity and the Hope of Mirror Neurons. I also know you’ve taken up right where she left off. I’ve already skimmed your graduate thesis, Mirror Neurons: the Neurological Key to Reclaiming Humane Humanity.”

  “My advisor and thesis title are hardly secrets, Sheriff.”

  “True,” he admits, leaning forward in his chair. “But not many understand the old art of hiding secrets in the open.” He gestures behind him to a full wall of books. “You see? Nobody who comes into this office ever suspects I’m a learned man. They see these books and think they’re a facade, or that they came with a government building. They don’t really believe a lawman can deal in ideas and nuances. It’s much easier to think he only deals in laws and principles and bottom lines. But the fact is, Ms. Ruse, I know who advised your mentor—and I don’t mean officially, but actually. And I also know where your cute little phrase, ‘Reclaiming Humane Humanity’ comes from. See that stack of papers beside you on the end table? That’s Dr. Malcolm R. Schlozfield’s now-illegal paper on mirror neurons and the possibility of bringing people back from the living dead.”

  Milly’s mouth is hanging open. She reaches out almost reverently for the loose stack of pages to her right, flipping through them gently. “I’ve only been able to get my hands on twelve pages. You’ve read it all? You’ve read Schlozfield?”

  The Sheriff snorts. “I’ve punched Schlozfield. After he became a fugitiv
e, I was the one who arrested him. Not long after that, I was the one who let him go. Who do you think trained our Doc?”

  Chapter Nine

  The Border

  Milly springs up, clutching Schlozfield’s paper to her chest. “He’s alive?” Her mouth moves as though wrestling to choose between a thousand questions. “Do you know where he is?”

  Hercules Sanchez chuckles and stands. “You see, Ms. Ruse? Like I said: you’ve got your secrets too. Fortunately, as it turns out, they’re pretty much the same as mine. We’re both looking for a Cure. How about you, Mr. Prose?” He turns his unblinking eyes on me. “Can we trust you to keep quiet about my extracurricular activities?”

  “You can trust him,” says Milly, taking my hand and pulling me off the couch. “Blake wants a Cure as much as anyone.”

  “Is that true, son? Look me in the eye and tell me that everything about Buzz and Schlozfield stays between us.”

  I raise my hands in mock surrender and play dumb. “Sheriff, I really don’t know what’s going on.” Even as those words come out of my mouth, I catch myself admiring Milly’s profile in the corner of my eye, the sharp curve of her lips, the gentle slope of her nose, the frame of burnished red hair.

  The Sheriff’s mouth twitches, the hint of a sympathetic smirk. Maybe he really can read people. Either way, I feel like an idiot and ramble on: “From what I can gather you’re not supposed to be messing with Infects . . . even if you bring them back to health . . . which I can’t see a problem with . . . and apparently this Schlozfield’s work is important to an even bigger experiment . . . bringing back a full zombie to its humanity . . . which the government has always held up as the Holy Grail of science anyway, so I don’t understand the need for secrecy . . . but for all that, I can tell you this: when I was six, my baby sister was infected. My parents prayed for a miracle. They were supposed to turn her in, but they didn’t . . . they couldn’t. We were living in an apartment with paper thin walls. When neighbors overheard my parents’ prayers, they reported what was happening. The police showed up and took Astrid away. I remember my mother screaming. I remember my dad wrestling with three officers before ending up handcuffed with his face smashed into the kitchen tiles. I remember praying that someone would save my sister. I remember thinking that maybe God had already healed her, but that the police would never know, because as soon as they got her back to the truck they would . . . ” Milly reaches up with her free hand and swipes a stray tear from my cheek. “I guess that’s all to say, Sheriff,” I continue, “that I’m glad for whatever you did to help Buzz. And if what you did is somehow illegal, then I want to be an outlaw.”

  The Sheriff cuffs my shoulder and squeezes. “Nobly spoken, son. There’s nothing like the morally courageous outlaw. All the same, I’d recommend a more pragmatically clever route.” He goes to his desk, slides open a drawer, and produces a badge. “Why not become a deputy of the border patrol?” He pins the badge on my chest. “Like I said, it’s usually wisest to hide in plain sight. Plus, this little hunk of metal can help keep you alive. Even off the borderlands, folks fear the border patrol. Some even respect us. It will also make sure that if you ever start blabbing about me I’ll have the direct authority to come haul you back to jail as a disgruntled, delusional insubordinate.” The Sheriff’s eyes meet mine with deadly cool. It’s clear he is not a man to mess with.

  “Thank you, sir. I don’t think I’ll take any chances that will get me thrown back in your hoosgow.”

  The Sheriff laughs. “Good! Although I have a feeling the longer you hang out with this lady, the more chances you’ll be taking. Come on, let’s get your stuff. I’ll give you a few of our magic syringes and then have Josie see you past Quarantine. That should make up for some of the hassle we’ve caused you.”

  “The magic syringes . . . ” What he’s saying takes a second to sink in. “You mean the stuff that can bring back Infects.”

  “That’s right. The most valuable gift I can give.”

  “Sheriff Sanchez,” says Milly, her face pensive. “Dr. Schlozfield . . . his research . . . do you know where I can find him, or how I can reach him? That’s really why I came out here.”

  “Hot damn, Ms. Ruse. I wish I knew where Malcolm was. I wish I could be out there helping him. All I can tell you is that he’s doing his research, still looking for the answer. Sometimes he stops into New Pokey when he needs supplies, although he’s always in disguise. Your best bet is . . . ”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, your best bet is your worst bet.” The Sheriff scratches his head, wrestling with whether to say more.

  “You can trust us, sir.” Milly sets the precious papers on his desk as though a peace offering.

  “It’s not a matter of trust, my dear. It’s a matter of me opening my hole and saying something that could get you and Malcolm killed.” The Sheriff begins to pace. “All right, trust is the only chance we’ve got out here, so I’ll trust you with information, but you’re going to have to swear to abide by a few rules in using it.”

  Milly doesn’t even blink. “Done.”

  “Um . . . ” I shuffle a step or two toward the door. “Maybe I should step outside.”

  “Sorry, deputy,” says the Sheriff with a somber wink. “You’re in the thick of this now. And here’s the tip. Yaverts. He’s usually running around the Territory hunting someone, or transporting someone, and from what I hear Yaverts likes to keep a tab on Oregon’s Most Wanted. I don’t know why. All I know is that if anybody ever has a sense of where Malcolm might be, it’s Rickard Yaverts. But here’s the rub: in all likelihood Yaverts is out to collect a bounty on Malcolm’s research. Or maybe just his life. Either way, letting slip that you’re searching for Schlozfield could get you both marked as bait, or get you killed as meddlers.”

  “All right,” says Milly, folding her arms. “If that’s your secret, what are your rules now that we know it?”

  “Simple—and hear me out. Do not try engaging Yaverts directly, indirectly, or otherwise. Do not ask him any probing questions, no matter how subtle. Do not talk to people he talks with. Do not try to eavesdrop on him, threaten him, reason with him, or deal with him. For every practical purpose, act as though I hadn’t told you anything.”

  “What?” Milly drops her arms, making fists. “You’re saying we can’t do anything! Why tell us about Yaverts then?—to torture us again? You already left us locked up in a dark cell, thinking some Screamer was going to wake up and eat our faces off. Wasn’t that enough?”

  The Sheriff scowls, his steely eyes showing little patience for Milly’s tantrum. “I asked you to bear with me. Yaverts can make a Screamer look like a kitty cat. He’d have you both skinned before you could bleed. All I’m saying is you can’t tip your hand. Not at all. But there’s one key exception.”

  “We trust you, Sheriff,” I lie, taking hold of Milly’s fist until it uncurls and her fingers lock with mine. “What’s the exception?”

  The Sheriff laughs. “The same exception that goes for everything out in the Territory: you wait until you can see no other choice.”

  Milly squeezes my hand so hard I wince. “Oh, thank you, Sheriff. That’s so very, very helpful.”

  “No need for sarcasm, Ms. Ruse,” he sighs. “What I’m trying to say is that if you can keep in Yaverts’ general proximity long enough without getting yourselves killed, Malcolm might decide . . . ”

  “He might decide to find us?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Prose. If it’s for the best, Malcolm will seek you out. And hear me: I’m also saying that if you try to find him any other way, not only will you fail, you’ll probably end up dead. So learn from your old friend, Hercules Sanchez: get yourself in the right place, keep your mouth shut, keep your eyes open, wait for the right moment. And be patient. Oh,” he adds, smoothing his mustache, “and don’t trust anybody.”

  Chapter Ten

  The Last Stand

  When Josie leads us back out into the streets of Charonville, night h
as fallen. The sky is bright with a crescent crag of waxing moon and the scattered clouds float leisurely south.

  I check my pocket watch: 8:55 p.m.

  For the most part, the town has quieted down. A tavern across the street rings with bawdy laughter and a half-dozen drunkards are stumbling around on the porch. Other than that, everyone in town has gone indoors. Folks usually like to beat the 10 p.m. curfew by an hour, Josie tells us.

  We march the twenty blocks west without saying much. I don’t know about Milly, but I’m spent for the day—maybe for the next few days. Since sharing another sip of elixir in parting with the Sheriff, my eyes have become way too mellow. I’m glad to have my rifle back over my shoulder and the new silver badge pinned on my chest—even if it is as much a threat as a gift. All the more, I’m glad to have Josie striding a few steps in front of us, leading the way. She knows how to look pissed, and even if she didn’t, I can’t imagine too many people messing with the Sheriff’s daughter.

  According to Josie, now is the time to cross the border if we want to skip Quarantine. A big part of me doesn’t really care. What’s another two hours spent locked up? At least it would be in a room full of heat and light and plenty of people. At least I could sleep. My eyelids are already drooping. Milly pinches my side.

  “Ow!”

  She shoots me a saucy glare and flicks my badge with a fingertip. “Not quite time to check out, Mr. Man. You’ve got to see me safely into danger.”

  Josie glances back with her own version of the same saucy glare.

  “Where do you ladies learn these looks?” I say, realizing I only meant to think the question, not speak it.

  “Where did you learn to drink?” Josie wants to know.

  My smile feels a bit wobbly. “If it wasn’t so late, I’d show you.”

  The women share a look and the blonde mutters, “I bet you would.”

  Before long, Charonville comes to an end. Its blocks and buildings draw up to an empty warning perimeter, fifty feet of flat, salt-like sand. Beyond stands the Wall. It rises in a blazing white, bathed in the glare of regularly spaced spotlights. From beyond it comes the muffled pop of gunfire. Straight ahead of us, across a scuffled swathe of sand, stands a giant steel-mesh door, probably forty feet wide and thirty feet high. The night air is fresher and more fragrant than any I’ve ever smelled. The Wall seems even taller than I thought it would. It’s silly, but part of me feels like dancing a jig or yelling hallelujah. Something about the sight makes me giddy.