He nods. He's got direction again now. He moves off to work on the burns victim.
I look across the room and pick out Lara, kneeling next to a fevered-looking man with his arms frozen up around his ears, dabbing at his brow and speaking softly to him while he struggles for breath. I find Anna next, by the boilers, preparing a chicken broth with a few others. We have plenty of chickens. She looks up at me and nods.
I get on the walkie and check in with half-Irish Feargal and his team on the roof, followed by mid-west Chantelle on patrol with her squad in their military Jeeps around the campus outskirts, but they have nothing to report. The streets are silent, nothing's moving, nothing's chasing these people at all.
That's a relief.
I gesture Lara and Anna over, then lead them away from the field hospital in the lobby, down toward the screen 4 storeroom.
"It's Julio," Anna says, her first words after we stop to face each other, spoken with utter conviction. "He's behind this, no doubt." I don't bother to argue.
"Or someone very like him," I say. "It's torture, and prolonged. Anna, have you spoken with any of them?"
She shakes her head. "Most of them can't even speak. I think some of them are missing tongues altogether, or they've shriveled up. Others just don't have the energy, and most of them have been unconscious since I came in."
I turn. "Lara?"
"Nothing more than earlier. Mumblings, whispers but nothing solid."
Anna looks between us, sensing something unsaid. Again I am glad that she is back. At this point it would usually be Lara, Cerulean and me in consultation about the future of our little community. Now Anna takes his place.
"The one woman, Abigail, she mentioned Cerulean," I tell her, "before she died."
Anna's eyes widen, and abruptly she looks ready to rip off heads. Some time in the night her knotted braids came loose, so they're swinging like black ropes on a pirate ship around her shoulders.
"What did she say? Where is he?"
"Let's find out," I say, and lead them back to the man who recognized me at the start.
He's sleeping, tended over by Macy. There's a drip in his wrist, and Macy checks a clipboard hanging from the bottom rail of the bed as we arrive. God, how quickly we civilized the wreckage here.
"It's his third bag," she says, in her rich plains accent. Macy was one of the first to join us, wandering in one day with a KFC bucket filled with actual breaded chicken wings that she'd made herself, plus another bucket of fresh buttered corn. That day the feast was on her. "Usual mixture, plus amoxicillin for good measure. He's actually in great condition, compared to the rest of them. No fusing, no breaks, nothing like that."
She smiles. I know she's just as tired as the rest of us, but she never shows it. She's a damn dynamo and another of the pillars of our community. I've often thought she and Ozark would make a great pairing, but he may be too broken for that. I think they've started playing chess together though, which is great.
I nod. "Thanks, Macy. Did Ozark tell you great work?"
She nods. "Mhmm."
"You deserve it. Thank you. There'll be a meeting at noon."
"Got it, noon." She winks at Anna. "Hey kiddo."
Anna blushes despite herself. I often forget she's the youngest adult we've got here. Truth is, I never really thought of her as a child, not since I first saw her get out of the RV in her cute blue dress. It may be strange to bring her into the leadership so quickly, but she's seen and done more than all these people combined.
"Hey," Anna answers with a quick smile.
It strikes me that Macy probably baby-sat for Anna more times than I did. Did they gossip with each other about their crushes? Did they bitch together about how I ran the town? The notion warms my heart. It's the little things amongst people, the bonds that tie them together like twigs settling into position in a strongly woven nest, that make me remember what all this is for.
Macy starts away and I look down at the guy. He's skinny but has a face that would be thin anyway, with pasty gray hair stuck to his scalp. He looks a lot better than before, with some color coming into his cheeks underneath the scraggly beard, but still not good.
"We need to wake him up," Anna says, "how do we do that?"
I drop to my knees and pat the guy gently on his bony shoulder. "Hey, buddy," I say, the old-fashioned way. "Wake up."
He stirs.
"Isn't this cruel?" Lara asks. "He needs to sleep."
"And we need to know what they were running from. Maybe they know where Cerulean is."
The guy's eyes open slowly. He looks at me, then Anna and Lara, then begins to cry quietly.
"It's OK," Lara says, resting one hand on his chest and the other on his cheek.
"You look," he says, working hard for each word, "just like in the comic."
Anna snorts.
"But I'm sorry," he says. "Your friend Cerulean is dead."
* * *
It takes the best part of an hour to get the whole story off him. At times he gets overwhelmed and has to rest, and some of the memories I almost wish he hadn't shared, but the gist of his story is clear.
His name is Peters Larenson, a Dane caught in the US on 'Infection Day' as he called it, on a business trip. He met Abigail a year after the infection, back when his English was still bad and he spent most of his days trying to learn it better so he could decipher the flight training manuals on his Cessna 400 TTx turbopropellor plane. He'd found it in a small Seattle airport, aiming to fly it back to Denmark. He was out on the runway one day when she'd simply walked out of nowhere, right up to him and planted a kiss on his lips.
They'd had sex before they even spoke. He thought it was a dream so went with it, this gorgeous older woman coming to be with him after a year alone, but when it was over she was still there.
"Call me Abigail," she'd said. Was it her real name? It didn't matter. His life instantly improved. They watched the sunrise and the sunset together, went jogging, lay on the sandy beaches, made love in the surf, ate old brisket from cans and pored over the Cessna's instructions. She seemed to have no drive to do anything but help him, so he asked her to join him.
"I already have," she said.
She taught him English, and months went by. He took the Cessna onto the runway and tried it out, but takeoff was always a challenge he couldn't quite grasp. They worked on CB radios with powerful antennae and tried to tune in AM frequencies transmitted from Europe, but nothing came. Perhaps everyone was dead there too.
So they studied, trained, and soon enough they flew. Peters got the craft up in the air and even managed to land it, soon becoming expert. At first he took looping circles round the airfield, with Abigail down below cheering him on, but soon she joined him in the cockpit as copilot and they undertook longer journeys.
They didn't go to Denmark, because the Atlantic crossing seemed too dangerous a challenge, and probably everyone was dead there too, so instead they flew around America. They marked off airfields on a map and joined them up with the jigsaw line of their passage, always watching the gray hordes pass by underneath. There was nothing quite so peaceful as soaring through the clouds above them, perhaps the only plane still flying in the entire world.
They made love at 10,000 feet with the autopilot on. Anna grimaced at this point in the story, but I waved her down. They made a home base for themselves on an airstrip by a beautiful alligator lagoon in Florida. Some days they did nothing but laze around in hammocks, watching gadflies and hummingbirds buzz around the giant lizards below. Other days they took off on long rambling 'holidays' on a gleaming silver airboat that felt a lot like flying, racing through swamps and rushes-filled creeks. Other times they'd take off in the Cessna, seeing the USA, sometimes flying out over the Atlantic for hundreds of miles in the hopes of seeing a ship somewhere.
They never did. Happy years passed and they wanted for little, becoming used to sharing the world with only each other. They fell into rarely speaking though they were always together
. It felt like slowly guiding the world into nothingness, becoming custodians as the human race's batteries gradually ran down and Earth was left for the birds and the bugs.
Then Julio came.
It was night when he crept into their house, and they were sleeping side by side. He must have shot them with sedative darts, because when they roused they were in the back of the same white panel van they'd ultimately escaped in.
Julio took them to a hole in the ground in Maine, where there was a hallway of horrors with a great red beast at the end, lined with wailing victims. He chained them up, ignoring their pleas and explaining that he was only doing what had to be done.
"It's for your own good," he'd often said, one of his favorite lines. As he raped Abigail the first few times, before he lost interest, he would say it along with other variations on the theme. As he whipped them both, and beat them, and stubbed burning embers out on their skin just to punctuate his day, he told them it was a punishment and it wasn't really their fault.
He blamed people they'd never heard of, though he acted as if they must have known them. "You really haven't read the comic?" he'd ask. "It's so good. Complete bullshit, but Amo's very talented."
He held it up for them to read. He pointed out all the major characters in the story. "It's for them that you're dying," he said. "It's their fault."
So Peters came to hate the comic and the characters in it too, because hating only Julio wasn't enough. He hated Amo and Lara and Anna, just as he was told to. The horrors visited upon him and his love were too much for words, and soon she stopped speaking completely. Still they had each other, gazing into each other's eyes across the hall, and that was something.
It could only have been months, though it was clear the others lined along the filthy hallway's walls had been there much longer. Some barely looked human anymore. Some of them droned in low, terrifying unison at times, craning their whip-thin necks toward the red beast in the glass at the chamber's end, like they were worshipping some cultish god.
Other times Julio told stories to the hallway at large, to entertain himself, and hurt them when the mood struck him. He entertained his whims and spoke to a woman's sharp voice in the air. He read the comic again and again, sometimes working himself into rages over the role he was given.
"Five panels!" he'd cry out. "Only five!"
He'd flail and lash out and wave the comic around, though each time before he fell to sleep on his pitiful and filthy bedding he'd smooth the pages carefully and set the comic reverently down on a little wooden altar.
Then Cerulean came.
He was brought, and for the week afterwards that Julio ignored the rest of them, forgetting to feed them, bringing no more tortures or rape. Peters could feel things building to a climax, the date Julio had been waiting for, as announced by the woman in the ceiling, until at last, one early morning, it happened.
The red demon woke up. It pushed its way from its glass cage and spewed bile into Julio, turning him into a red beast as well. It spewed bile into Cerulean and others, then Cerulean turned and attacked it.
At that point in the story Anna gasped. Lara took her hand. I urged Peters on.
Cerulean fought the Julio-demon and tore its head off. He killed the others that had been infected and fought the demon to a standstill, forcing it back into its glass cage. He broke the shackles of all the victims and roared a warning at them.
"Go to Amo! Warn him."
As Peters gathered up Abigail and ran for the ladder, he had no intention of going to Amo. He hated the man almost as much as he hated Julio. His cruelty was the reason for all of this; the terrible things he'd done to Julio had now been visited upon them. Then, as he passed the giant, swaying red body of Cerulean, something changed. He looked into the strange beast's sad red eyes and understood something profound.
He was a victim too. He was Cerulean from the comic, a paraplegic who had lost everything and survived, who with his dying breaths had just fought a demon to save them all. He was surely dying even now.
It was enough to turn Peters around, turn both him and Abigail around and send them back to the others, to the victims who, when they fell from their chains, lay uselessly on the cold stone. They had no muscles left, no power to move themselves. So Peters and Abigail lifted them up, helped by others, and together they worked the winch to get them out.
Over ground for the first time in perhaps half a year, barefoot in the snow Peters dragged their shivering bodies through the white fields, to the white van Julio had brought them in.
Together they filled it up, bodies stacked on bodies on the stained mattress in the back, then he got into the driving seat, turned the key waiting in the ignition and tore away. Explosions rang out all around them, bombs falling from above with the woman's anger, and once the van was almost blown off the road and down into a gulley, but he managed to keep them moving until the worst of it was over.
After that the journey was a blur. They must have stopped but he didn't remember it. Some times Abigail drove or one of the others but he didn't remember changing over. The road stretched on and on and they must have collected gas and food a dozen times but he didn't know how or when.
Then there was LA. Road signs from another world led them there, to here, looking up into his old enemy Amo's face, and realizing he was a friend.
"Thank you," Peters said, as he finished talking. "Thank you for being here and for trying to save my Abigail. Now we have to run. The red demon is coming. He wants to kill us all, just like he killed Cerulean."
I look at him, and I look at Lara and Anna, then round at the lobby and all the people in it. Then I pat Peters' hand, tell him thank you, and walk out of the Chinese Theater into the light.
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Copyright © 2016 by Michael John Grist
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Cover art by Damonza.
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The Last Mayor Box Set 1 Page 61
