by Shane Woods
These were solid plans, and everybody seemed positive in their shared outlook. Safety and security. Sustainability. I wasn’t sure if I was the only one aware of the long-term implications, but this had a depressing undertone. The talk of things built to last and planning so far ahead. We were resigned. We were giving up hope of this ending. We were colonists in a new, hostile, dead world. This was our lives now.
I broke the mood anyway, but in a different manner.
“Hate to break up the positivity everyone,” I broke in, “but has anyone seen Chris in the last few days?”
Nobody had.
“Okay,” I stated. “From now on, everybody checks in with Jennifer at dinner time. Spread out, I want the compound searched for him. I’ll start in the basement of the south building. Everyone else check everywhere. In pairs. Let’s go, people!”
We searched through the afternoon, and a team went out to give a check outside the wall for a block in each direction. They found a flashlight, and a strange looking glass smoking pipe a half block away, but reported no blood. Well, at least he didn’t appear to have been eaten. Now, where did he go?
I advised the team that was to go out scavenging in the morning to keep an eye open for him, and to do their job in the direction that his clues led. Maybe we’d get lucky. Maybe not. There was so much going on, we could try, but, where the hell was I supposed to have the time and resources to search a dead town, attached to a dead city, for one guy?
***
Dinner was the typically joyous affair, this time complete with Henry and James keeping busy assigning positions for work teams for the next day, and Rich with his own plans. He was talking in my ear about how he needs this and that, how his future armory could be waterproofed and secured. I told him my new favorite go-to response.
“Make a list, give it to Bri.”
After finishing the food and what conversation that felt pertinent, I retired downstairs. Jennifer and Gwen were nowhere to be found, probably still conversing on the rooftop. That was okay, I undressed and flung myself on the bed. Jennifer was still recovering, in a sense, from the loss of Melissa. If she could have some time with friends, I was thankful. It was time to distract herself, and time to give myself to get lost in other thoughts.
I didn’t. I was asleep before I could reach that damned itch in that weird spot on my back.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I rolled out of bed in the morning, Jennifer still breathing lightly, fast asleep. Walking past Gwen’s room, I noticed she was still out cold, too. Good. At least I didn’t have to explain my plans for the day to anybody.
Making my way out of the entrance to the building I paused, taking in the warm early morning, the sun not quite having broken the horizon yet, though its heat was still apparent.
I looked around to make sure nobody was watching and noticed Henry on the southern rooftop keeping guard. I decided he wasn’t looking my way so I took a moment to relieve myself on the nearest bush and began walking to the entrance of the southern building.
Once inside, a left turn, one flight of steps down, and I found myself looking at Tony. He was sitting slouched in a lawn chair in the middle of the hallway, fast asleep.
I folded my arms, and loudly cleared my throat. He stirred a bit, then casually opened his eyes and promptly closed them again as he fell into a deep yawn, followed by a stretch.
“Wake up, you fuck,” I grumbled, trying to project some jest into my tone.
“Oh!” Tony replied lazily. “What’s up, dude? I figured they weren’t going anywhere.”
“You’re lucky you were military,” I replied. “Otherwise I’d question your ability to wake up from a snooze if they made noise escaping.”
“It’s an acquired talent,” Tony said, grinning. “So what are we going to do?”
I whispered some quiet instructions to him, and he left.
Looking around at the hallway I occupied, I took it all in. The occupied section of the corridor was lit by candlelight, the light ending just past the area needed to view. Eyeing the two securely locked doors, our first prison cells, I recalled all the power generation equipment we’d gathered on the rooftops and retrieved the radio from my side.
“James, you up?” I spoke into the handset.
After a moment, “Yeah, barely, boss, what’s up?” James’ voice crackled through the device.
“Where we at with getting power hooked up?” I questioned, then, “Over.”
“Uhhhh Rob says he has everything just about ready in the security room,” he said, recalling details. “I’ve been busy with y’all but I can get the rest of the power ran in a few hours probably. Over.”
“Get you some coffee,” I instructed, “and get on it then. I’d like to be able to heat up a Hot Pocket by lunch time. Over.”
“Sir,” James began, “we don’t have any of those. Over.”
“Yeah,” I replied with a chuckle, “but the thought is nice. If Henry asks, tell him you two will help him with the dry moat after your job is done.”
A new voice broke the line as soon as my last words left my mouth.
“Loud and clear my friend.” It was Henry, “We’ll get the streets emptied in a short while, I’ll begin digging and building after that. Oh, and, uh, copy on James and Rob. Over.”
“Good shit, brother,” I replied. “I’ll be busy with my own project, I’ll find you later on. Over.”
We finished our conversation and James began hailing Rob, who replied, eventually. They sorted out a meeting in the security center and broke radio contact. Henry quickly picked up the line and started calling people to put out the breakfast call to the local freaks. I’m sure Dave and Tony were sore they were missing that, but we had our own business to attend to.
A few more beats and here they came, each one carrying their own end of a large folding card table with an assortment of things piled on top, including a couple of heavy wooden folding chairs from the floor above, some rope, and other items I’d asked for.
Arguing amongst each other like a couple of siblings, they finally set the table up lengthwise in the hallway and began organizing its contents.
“Okay,” I began instructing, “I want each of them in their cell, shirtless, and tied very firmly to a chair. I’ve got some questions to ask these fine young gentlemen.”
Both of my friends agreed, complied, and in a few more minutes both of our captives were tied, scared, and complaining.
I stepped into the first room. The younger white guy tied to the chair did not look too pleased. His shirt off, patches of tattoos covered his body, including ‘Always Faithful’ stretched in an arc across his narrow belly.
“Mornin’!” I said cheerily. “I’ve got questions, of course, if you work with us, I set you free, maybe even drive you home. Give me shit, and I’ll have to find another place much, much further away to deliver you to. I don’t really want to kill off the living though, so, please, work with me here.”
He glared at me like I had kicked his mother. Okay. Not much progress so far.
I retrieved a pack of cigarettes from my pocket, a lighter, took one for myself and lit it, and shook another loose to offer to the young man tied to the chair. He shook his head and grinned.
“Nah asshole, I don’t smoke that shit,” he replied, sly venom in his voice. “That’s why you bitches gonna lose. We stay fit.”
“That’s nice in theory,” I began, exhaling a cloud of smoke into his face, “but you’re the one half naked and tied to a chair in my basement, fuck head. Would you like to reconsider your cockiness?”
His grin disappeared, replaced by a scowl in an instant. Good.
“Not gonna be so sure of yourself when Big Tyler find out about this spot,” the man spat.
“That’s your leader?” I asked. No reply. “Okay then, what’s your name?”
Nothing.
“Where is your home in this new world?” I tried, still nothing. He just sat tied to the chair looking straight down between his f
eet.
This continued on for nearly thirty minutes. He wouldn’t answer anything at all.
“You can beat me, starve me, whatever you want, bitch,” he finally offered. “Ain’t selling out the family. You ain’t gettin’ shit out me, home boy.”
“Oh, I think I will. I’ve got a backup plan,” I said, smiling wide, and whispered something quickly to Dave, who disappeared for a moment and came back in with a small armload of items.
Since the guy wouldn’t break eye contact with the floor at his feet, that’s where I placed my tools. In this space, I laid a metal serving spoon and a quart of heavy weight motor oil. With my hands free, I retrieved the lighter from my pocket and used it to light the MAP gas bottle torch I still held. This was also placed at his feet, flame pointed toward him, just far enough away for some of the heat to reach the man.
He started visibly changing his firm position, a thin bead of sweat breaking out on his brow, but he remained silent and tried to project as much resilience as possible.
“I want to be a good host,” I explained, straining to retain the cheer in my voice, despite my own admonitions at what was to come.
I picked up the motor oil and cracked the top of the container open.
“In respect to my graciousness,” I continued, not letting any of my own tension break the calm of my tone, “all I ask, is that you provide us with some info. Maybe we could even open up trade, and positive relations with your…Big Tyler. That’s really what he goes by?”
The man remained firm.
I proceeded to pick up the serving spoon, and, in clear view of his eyes, measured out a brimming spoonful of motor oil.
“This is probably the last chance to offer me what I’m asking for,” I cautioned. He spat at me, a sticky, dehydrated stream of spittle landing on the front of my shirt.
“Okay.” I strained to remain calm, outwardly, at least, “You must just be tense. I’ll help you relax.”
I removed my now saliva-tainted shirt.
“Tony, gag him with this,” I instructed calmly.
Tony, looking a bit uneasy, took the shirt from me and approached the man. He resisted, clenching his jaw and not allowing the cotton tee any passage.
“I’d like this to be as easy as possible on our guest,” I offered, “so, if the shirt won’t fit, remove some teeth. It should work then.”
Well imagine that. Suddenly his jaw relaxed and he allowed himself to be gagged.
I picked up the still-lit torch and motioned toward the captive with it.
“I’ve never done a massage like this before,” I explained, touching the flame of the torch to the bottom of the spoonful of oil, “but, from what I understand, the oil should be heated to relieve tension and help calm you.”
The man’s eyes widened a noticeable amount.
“You sure you don’t want to help us? I may write a book about this someday, I want to make sure I’ve got the information just right!” I explained.
His eyes narrowed, he stared straight ahead, and he puffed his chest slightly. Okay. I’d have given up the ghost at this prospect, apparently this guy is, as his tattoo would indicate, Always Faithful.
“No problem!” I said, my stomach turning behind my Pleasantville grin. “Let me know if this is too warm for you or just right.”
The oil in the spoon began bubbling and letting off a pungent blue-white smoke.
I stepped to the man, removed the heat from the spoon, and began to drizzle the oil over his back and shoulders. The skin began to turn and crackle everywhere the heated honey-like fluid contacted it. The screams emanating from his throat resonated through the whole corridor despite their muffle.
The stench of hot oil and burning flesh filled the room, stifling the already thick air, and permeating every bit of my being.
As if queued, the rifle fire from outside began, signaling the start of the neighborhood watch, as Tony began calling our morning clean-up of the area. The shots were light, sporadic in their staccato, apparently less partygoers each morning, as this sounded lighter than the last.
After moments that seemed to be hours, the spoon was empty. The prisoner slouched in his seat, against his bindings, panting and sobbing heavily. Tears mixed with long streams of snot dripped in runners down his face and over the shirt still occupying his mouth. The oil-soaked flesh looked as ugly as any horror movie makeup I’d ever seen.
My stomach threatened to give up everything it didn’t contain inside of it, but I steeled myself and began anew.
Filling the spoon back up with oil, and reapplying the heat source to it, I asked again, struggling to remain casual.
“Now, are you relaxed? Would you like to help me out a bit here? Oil isn’t made anymore, and it’s kind of a commodity now.”
The response was, in truth, not what I’d expected. He arched and pressed against his bindings, letting out a muffled bellow as every tendon, muscle, and vein popped to the surface and the chair creaked heavily before he relaxed and locked eyes with me, glaring as rage broke the surface in his expression.
“Okay, your choice,” I called to him. “Usually we only offer a twenty-minute experience, but we’ll give you the full hour session, since clearly you’re still tense.”
The spoonful of oil brought back to a heat so warm you could see the heat roiling on its surface and I approached again. I began allowing a long thin drizzle to fall into his close-cropped hair, then, impatient, I dumped the whole large spoonful at once over his head. The oil and skin fizzled and even popped as it came into contact with sweat, exploding pockets of the bodily fluid with audible snaps and sizzles. The substance rolled down his head, hissing more as it came into contact with his ears, and his neck, hungrily transforming the flesh it contacted. His muffled screams reached such a pitch as to be inaudible as he pulled and strained before finally going limp.
In my distance I could hear Tony retching in the corner as Dave began calling my name.
“Scott! Fuck, man!” Dave bellowed. “Enough, god dammit, too much! He’s done!”
Pulling myself back to the world I quickly pressed my fingers into the cooling oil on the side of his neck. A pulse.
“He’s still alive,” I whispered to my buddies. “We can use this. Tony, say he’s dead.”
“Okay, he’s dead,” Tony whispered, his voice soft but very matter of fact.
“No, dude, say it so the other guy hears,” I urged as realization dawned on Tony’s face.
“Dude!” Tony called loudly, “What the fuck did you do? We needed answers and you killed him! Shit!”
“Well,” I began, equally loud and clear, “I guess it’s a good thing we brought a spare.”
As a trio, we exited the room, turned, and entered the storage locker next door. Here, a slightly larger, slightly heavier built black man of about the same age sat in the same bound position as the other man. Again, tattoos present here and there. Except, this one didn’t appear to be as ready to fight as the other.
“I’m going to cut to the chase here because I don’t want to waste any more time,” I counselled. “Your buddy next door just died from shock, from the pain, and didn’t even give a name. Your choice. Think fast.”
I immediately poured out a spoonful of oil and began heating it up.
“No need,” the man said calmly. “I’ve got no family to protect there. The other guy was Big Tyler’s nephew, Johnny, and you just brought a war down on yourself killing him. You need to answer for that. He will end you.”
“Yeah?” I paused, both perplexed and relieved at this one’s compliance, “Okay, where?”
“The old high school in the North of the city,” he informed, then added, “By the fire department.”
“Okay good,” I replied, dousing the torch and setting my things aside. “How many are there? How well supplied and armed? What’s their disposition?”
“All I can and will say,” he continued, “is that Big Tyler intends to take over the city. He’s enslaving anyone weaker and recr
uiting those loyal.”
“How many people, how many weapons?” I asked again.
“I won’t give that much up. I’m sorry,” he admitted, looking resigned, “you can torture and kill me, too, I just can’t.”
“That’s okay,” I said easily. “We have a location, we can scout it easily enough.”
“That’s fair,” the man replied. “Name’s Tyrone, by the way. I didn’t get yours.”
“Sir,” I replied firmly. “You can call me Sir. Hey, Tony?”
“Yes sir,” Tony reported.
“See, Tyrone? Sir works for me,” I smiled, then, to Tony, “Go get some shit to clean and patch the other guy up and get him woken up. We’ll find a plan for them, they can’t go straight home.”
Confusion crossed Tyrone’s face as Tony disappeared into the hallway.
“Yeah, sorry for the deception,” I informed Tyrone, “Johnny isn’t dead, but he is badly burned, and the pain did cause him to lose consciousness.”
“You’d have been better off killing him,” Tyrone cautioned, “Tyler is a dangerous man.”
“Oh well. So am I,” I warned. “Dave, get this man together, and get him some water and a little food. Wherever we go, he’s got a journey tomorrow. He’ll need to be ready.”
“Got it,” Dave replied.
TWENTY-NINE
Out in the morning sun was a beautiful sight to my eyes. Henry was out directing and supervising a full set of both construction, and armed escort. Most of our available people were here as backhoe and excavator worked in tandem digging out a trench two full blocks away from our existing fence. One team was assigned to each vehicle, as well as another for the people working on foot.
While the machines dug, another team stripped fencing and any other large flat materials they could grab from the surrounding neighborhood, including the plywood lining the inner walls of an adjacent garage. I could count only a half dozen people not present, presumably Carolyn with the kids, Rob and James working in the north building, Dave and Tony, and, still no Chris.
