—George Bernard Shaw
He couldn’t just stand there beside the road all day, gawking at technological marvels.
Owen Hall put away his indecision and stepped onto the moving belt. It very nearly threw him and he promptly jumped off again to examine the tricky thing. Technique and expertise were lacking, although once he had ridden a moving stairway in a St. Louis department store.
That boarding maneuver certainly wasn’t familiar; he’d not done anything like that before. Owen got aboard a second time, swinging on awkwardly and again nearly losing his balance despite his being prepared for the forward motion. He braced his feet apart and teetered, noting with a small envy that the other riders weren’t having his troubles. Well, maybe he could do better tomorrow, unless he skipped the whole nonsense to go fishing. It was more fun to fish than to work anyway.
Owen concentrated on the task for minutes, getting accustomed to the motion and learning how to maintain his balance. The soles of his feet detected an indefinable humming or whirring feel, to suggest that motors and wheels were spinning beneath the street. When he was satisfied that he could take his eyes off the road and his attention away from his feet without falling down, he * looked about at his surroundings.
Row houses were flowing monotonously by him on the one hand and the great green prairie on the other. He preferred the prairie and gave it all of his attention, watching with keen expectation for a stream, a pond, or perhaps a gravel pit—almost any kind of water hole that promised a spot for fishing. Tomorrow would be a fine day for fishing. That sport was infinitely better than going to work, and President Roosevelt surely wouldn’t ‘mind him taking off just one day for relaxation. Even the President went for a restful cruise on the Potomac now and then.
Two objects on the prairie claimed his attention.
The first was an old cemetery? It was more than old, it was ancient—a place long abandoned by the looks of .it. The marble monuments and the smaller stones had tumbled over in neglect, fallen to the vandals of time and wind, while weeds and tall grasses grew everywhere in an eager attempt to obliterate the remaining traces of the stones. Bases and pedestals were already lost to the weeds, and their presence had to be guessed at. Owen didn’t think it likely the cemetery would offer any good fishing spots.
He was surprised to see some of the workmen ahead of him quit the road and plod along a path through the weeds toward the ancient graveyard. Owen stared open-mouthed. The workmen carried no spades, no tools of any kind that were visible to him, but the cemetery was their obvious destination. Six or eight men plodded along in single file through the entangling weeds, obediently following a zombie leader who seemed to know where he was going. Why work in an old cemetery?
Owen said aloud, “Rum bunch,” and turned his gaze to the second attraction—to the timber he’d seen when he first examined the new world.
It was a magnificent stand of timber already in the full leaf of summer and it wheeled toward him in a kind of majestic splendor as the road carried him northeast. The place was inviting. It would be pleasantly cool under those trees, cool and inviting later in the day when the sun scorched the town. A place for introspection. Owen craned his head to watch as the timber wheeled past him, searching for birds or sign of small game within it. He made up his mind to investigate that cool place as soon as he had the free time, to stroll through it and see what could be found. Next to fishing, the woods were the best place for thinking and dreaming, the place for living yesterday over again and for plotting tomorrow before it came. With some luck, some prodding, he might even rediscover his memory there—all of his memory instead of the bits and pieces he now owned.
Yes, indeed, he’d certainly explore those woods.
The prairie seemed empty of other life: there were no cattle, no livestock of any kind, and nary a sign of a plow. The sod of that prairie had not been turned in a very long time—not for a small eternity, to judge by the overgrowth. Owen wondered if he was seeing buffalo grass. His grandfather had told him that the prairies were once covered by buffalo grass, before the sodbusters cut it up with plows or burned it off to make room for settlements. It would be a welcome sight to see one, just one farmhouse somewhere out there on the prairie—and preferably a farmhouse with a working windmill. A pleasurable sight.
The road carried him around the rim of the town. It reminded him of riding around the rim of the world.
There was nothing on the inside of the road but an unbroken row of drab houses and painted doors, buildings that were monotonously stacked side by side and holding each other up in mutual support. The houses clung together to demonstrate that misery loved company, while file many colored doors did little to improve their lot.
Men—zombie men—came out of countless doorways to join those others already riding the road—men plodded out of numerous warrens to take their wooden places alongside other wooden men—but none of them shouted hello or grumbled about the night before or told a dirty joke. No one knocked the St. Louis Browns or predicted when they’d climb out of the cellar. The men did nothing more than swing aboard the road with practiced step and then stand as if dead, waiting for whatever would happen next.
Owen Hall thought that was pretty stupid. He walked gingerly across the road and stared into the face of a newcomer.
“What’s the name of this here town, sport?”
The fellow returned his stare for a fraction of a second, for no more than a tic in time, and then dropped his gaze to study his own feet.
Owen bent down, craned his neck against the man’s chest, and peered up into the blockish face.
“Do you think the Senators will ever win the pennant?”
The fellow turned around to avoid him.
Owen told him aloud that was a hell of a thing for a grown man to do, and lost interest in the clod. Walking carefully because he had not yet mastered the technique of maintaining an easy balance on the roadway, he went forward a few paces and tapped another rider on the shoulder.
“Where can a thirsty man get a beer around here?”
The rider closed his eyes and hung his head.
“Well, then, where’s a horse parlor?” Owen asked. “Where can a sporting man put down a few bucks?”
There was no response.
“Don’t you even have a pool hall? Show me a pool hall and I’ll show you where beer can be had.”
No answer.
Owen said, “You’re a live one! I’ll bet you’re a bushel of laughs at home.”
He wandered back and forth along the road, staring impudently into unresponsive faces and asking questions —sensible and foolish questions to gain attention. There were no responding answers—sensible or foolish. He slid in between a pair of workmen who seemed to be traveling together, but was ignored by both of them. He plucked at a few elbows, accidentally stepped on somebody’s toes, and gently rapped on one bald pate to provoke a reply, but his only reward after several minutes of experimentation was a long loud silence. His co-riders would not respond in any way or acknowledge his presence, except to turn away when he thrust his face against theirs. He was shirked, ignored, and cold-shouldered.
Owen told them loudly that they acted like a pack of zombies. He pronounced them dead around the ears. He said that if they fell down they’d be buried.
The zombies accepted his judgment without comment.
Owen’s curiosity returned to the road itself. Now there was something alive, vibrant, and productive. The street hummed beneath his feet and he fancied that he could actually feel the powerful motors carrying out their only duty. Could those motors be seen, he wondered? Were the wheels visible? The mechanism was worth investigating.
Moving cautiously to the very edge of the rolling surface and taking care not to topple off into the grass, he dropped to his knees and looked over the side in search of a crack or seam in the construction materials, seeking a space between the road itself and whatever solid bed it rested on. There was nothing—no separating space.<
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Owen thought that failed to make sense; there had to be a crack, however thin, between the two bodies. If the road was suspended on jets of air, there ought to be little wheels somewhere inside to provide a forward motion; if mighty motors drove the thoroughfare, there should be larger wheels and gears and belts and things to speed it along; or if some new and unimaginable invention drove the road, that invention should be visible to his inspection. And, of course, there should be a nameplate or a patent plate attached to the side of the road giving, the inventor due credit for his predictive engineering. That in turn would provide a patent number and a patent date.
He found nothing.
Owen was kneeling there, puzzling the matter, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. The finger had the feel of authority. A side glance revealed a pair of legs clad in pink coveralls—baby pink. Owen sighed, not really wanting to face that ogre again.
He said, “Hi, Mother. Did you bring the jug?”
“Stand up.”
Owen obediently stood up and realized his mistake. This woman was not the ogre. This woman was dressed in the same fashion, in a similar garment, but most decidedly she was not the same female he had last seen stumbling and bouncing through a green doorway. This one had no bulge about the middle. This one was a few inches taller than the first and was several years younger; this one had sandy blonde hair, a slim figure, graceful hands, properly proportioned arms and legs, and a minute brown spot on the tip of her nose that might have been a freckle. A new woman.
This woman didn’t bellow. She asked, reasonably enough, “What were you doing down there?”
“Looking for the little wheels,” Owen responded.
“What little wheels?”
“The little wheels this road runs on. They’ve got to be under there somewhere.”
“Did you find them?”
“Nope.”
“Should there be little wheels under it?”
“Well, yes—unless it runs on rubber bands.”
“How do you know that?”
“I subscribe to Amazing Mechanics magazine.”
The new woman peered closely at his eyes, bending down to study the pupils. Her extraordinary height was a bit unsettling, but he didn’t think she would topple over. The newcomer was in complete control of her faculties.
She asked, “Are you well? Do you feel all right?”
“Of course I do. Want to dance?”
“Is your equilibrium satisfactory?”
“Now there it goes again!” Owen felt frustrated. “Why do you people keep asking that? There’s nothing wrong with me—except that I don’t, remember last night. I don’t remember much of me.”
The pink young woman studied him in speculation. “Are you new?”
“New what? This town is a new one on me.”
“What is a jug?”
“Booze, of course.”
“What is booze?”
“The stuff that comes in a jug. You drink it.” Owen decided the little freckle on the tip of her nose was fascinating. “I mean, you drink it when you can get it.”
“Why?”
Owen said with some exasperation, “Oh, fudge! Go ask your sister.”
“I have no sister. Where did you originate?”
“I don’t know—back there somewhere.” He waved a careless hand, to indicate some vague distance behind and almost struck a man standing nearby. The workman blinked at his passing hand but didn’t move away from them.
, Owen turned on the waiting woman and said dryly, “Here, watch this.” He deliberately thrust his index finger against the man’s nose and pushed it off center. “Beep.” The man turned his back.
“See that?” Owen demanded. “No guts.”
“Why did you do that?”
“For the hell of it. We need a little excitement around here. The town’s pretty dead—haven’t you noticed?”
She bent again to study his eyes. “Your behavior is most unusual. I suspect you are incomplete. Are you sure you don’t remember your point of origin?” The woman watched his pupils for a reaction.
“Honey, I wouldn’t go back there again if I did remember. That old bat was loaded, but she wouldn’t share it— nary a drop.” Owen looked at the back of the man standing nearby and suspected the fellow of eavesdropping. Nosy zombie. He grasped the young woman’s hand and pulled her to the middle of the roadway, well away from the man. She seemed reluctant to move and he had to tug.
“Now we can talk,” he explained. “These guys give me the creeps.”
The woman in pink was startled by his action. “You touched me!”
Owen looked at her chest. “Want an encore?”
“No. Laborers do not touch wardens.”
“I’ll touch anybody,” Owen said. “I’m broad-minded.”
The woman did something that startled him in turn. Reaching for the flap on the breast pocket of his coveralls, she pushed her fingers down inside, rummaging about for something that she thought should be there. Owen looked down, following her fingers, and discovered for the first time that he was wearing dun-colored coveralls. Until now he just hadn’t paid attention to what he was wearing. His garment wasn’t as well tailored as hers, wasn’t as neat and trim and form-fitting, but clearly it had come from the same manufacturer. All the men on the street were dressed alike, dressed as he was—a colorless pack of nobodies.
Owen asked, “What are you looking for—lint?”
The woman didn’t answer but continued the search through the remaining pockets of the garment. All of them were empty. Pulling the loose collar away from his neck, she fingered the neckband all the way around without finding anything and then moved her search down the sleeves. Owen received a thorough frisking but nothing was found. The next maneuver unsettled him. The woman in pink didn’t hesitate or offer an apology as she dropped to one knee before him and completed the frisk, running exploratory hands up and down the legs of his coveralls, inside and out. Owen looked on with embarrassment and no little amazement; he thought he might giggle if she kept on—he was ticklish there.
Discovery: a small oblong bar resembling stainless steel was found pinned to the cuff inside a trouser leg.
“Jackpot!” he cried. “What is it?”
“Your identification.”
The warden removed the bar from the trouser cuff with an exclamation of annoyance and pinned it in the proper place under the flap of that breast pocket she had first’ searched. Owen watched as she placed the flat of her thumb on the bar and gently pressed it against his chest.
For the sheer fun of it, he did the same to her.
The .young woman was taken aback by his gesture, almost shocked, but she stood her ground when she realized what he was doing. Owen rather liked what he was doing. ‘An identical bar of steel was pinned beneath the flap of her breast pocket and it sank softly inward as he pushed.
A sensation was transmitted through his thumb—a peculiar feeling he didn’t immediately recognize.
Owen lifted his thumb, looked at the underside of it with wonder, and returned it to the yielding steel bar. The sensation came again, and this time he realized what was happening. He was reading an identification. His thumb felt and read numbers imprinted on the bar—he was actually thumb-reading a message implanted there.
LH-350350-b08-136
“That is enough,” she said, and removed his hand from her breast.
Owen put a thumb to his own pocket bar.
Recla/ H-2607.02-30?
“Hey!” he cried in surprise. “Dig that crazy bug number. What’s the question mark for?”
“Your original age is uncertain.”
“No it isn’t. I’m twenty-eight.”
The woman zeroed in on that. “How do you know?”
“Well, I guess I ought to know my own age. I’m draft bait, I’m 1-A. The war and all, see?” His thumb went back to the identification bar for a second read. “What does Recla/H mean?”
She ignored the question.
“Were you given direct instructions when you began this morning?”
“Began what?”
“When you left a house and mounted the road.”
“Sure—I was told to follow these creeps to work.”
“What else?”
“Nothing else—and here I am following these creeps to work.” Owen looked around at his fellow passengers. “They’re a sorry lot. Dead from the neck up.”
“Were you given anything?”
“Hah! I was given a lot of bull from a drunken old broad. Honey, she was loaded.”
The new woman betrayed her impatience. “Was there nothing more? Weren’t you instructed to return to the house after finishing your work?”
“Nope—nothing like that.”
“You don’t recall your point of origin? What was the number on the door?”
“I don’t know the number. It was a green door.”
“There are hundreds of green doors. Do you remember the woman at the house?”
Owen shuddered. “I remember she was loaded.” “Loaded? She was weighted down? A burden?”
“She was loaded with booze. I mean, looped ”
“I don’t know. What is looped? What is booze? Where did she obtain the looped booze?”
“How should I know?” Owen was quickly irritated. “Maybe she had a still in there, behind the green door.” “A still what?”
“Baby doll, you are one dull cat. Don’t you know anything? Don’t you know how to get on in the world?”
“I don’t understand you.”
“That makes two of us. How did you ever get to be a supervisor around here without knowing anything?” He stood back, the better to stare up at her. The woman was several inches taller than he was, a disconcerting height. “You pink women are running this crazy place, aren’t you? Well, then, you should know the score.” Owen examined the tiny brown spot on the tip of her nose that could be a freckle. “Where did I come from, anyway, and how did I get here? Where is here? How did I get mixed up in this zombie business?”
Ressurection Days Page 2
