Garden : A Dystopian Horror Novel

by Carol James Marshall

  Jeff’s father snorted, “You’ll what?”

  Micah put the muzzle of the pistol he had gotten from his informant Nutri-Corp officer to the old man’s head. He hadn’t wanted to show this card yet. Micah had planned to hide his gun until he needed it, and that moment had come too soon.

  Feeling the gun against his temple, the old man snorted then laughed again. “Oh, I didn’t know this elite jerk had it in him.”

  In the side mirror, Micah caught Jeff’s smile as they sped down the road, Nutri-Corp City growing smaller by the second. Jeff drove on, not saying a word.

  “Let her out,” said Jeff’s father, nodding to the floorboard. “It’ll be an oven in that box. You’ll have a corpse on your hands.”

  Lifting his feet, Micah pulled the floor mats aside one handed not daring to let go of his pistol. He lifted the lid and pulled his wife out. The smell of vomit rose with her.

  Micah felt disgust and pity at the same time. She crawled onto the seat next to the window. She didn’t snuggle up to Micah but turned her face to the open window, allowing the wind to dry the sweat from her skin and hair. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “Get comfortable, ma’am. We’ll be on the road for hours,” Jeff said to Clarissa. He handed her a bottle of water, reaching back over his seat. She took it but did not drink from it.

  Clarissa sat motionless on a blanket not far from the car. Late into the night, they had stopped for a couple of hours. Snoring loudly, Jeff lay on the hood of the car, while his father snored from inside the vehicle. Like father, like son.

  Watching Clarissa stare up at the swath of stars covering the night sky, Micah wondered if their child would act like him or her.

  He hoped the child acted like neither of them. Micah was a scoundrel. Clarissa nothing more or less than a social climber on a continual quest to better their situation in life. He couldn’t blame her for that, but the way she went about it always seemed underhanded.

  “I like the name Charles,” Clarissa said, as if they sat on their couch at home.

  A woman’s mind was an uneasy road to Micah. It was a road full of dips, turns, tight corners, but Micah smiled, looking at his pregnant wife admiring the lovely view.

  “We have plenty of time to discuss names,” Micah said.

  “No,” Clarissa answered. “We might not see tomorrow together. If something happens, I want it settled.”

  “I like the name Valencia, it means strength,” Micah responded.

  His wife looked at him with mixed emotions. She seemed amused and yet fearful. It was the fear in her eyes that constricted Micah’s throat.

  “I hate that name,” she said, shaking her head. Then, she gave Micah a soft smile. “But now is not the time to argue. If it’s a girl, it’ll be Valencia.” Clarissa nodded to herself and whispered, “I’ll call her Vale.”

  Micah laughed despite himself, despite the situation, despite the boulder of tension lodged in his gut, because he knew what he was about to do. His next actions would break the absurd beauty of this moment with Clarissa. Standing, Micah kissed the top of Clarissa's head and took out his gun.

  Not bothering to move from his spot next to his wife, Micah aimed at Jeff’s head and pulled the trigger. When Jeff’s body jerked, his father bolted upright in the back seat. Micah took two steps forward and pulled the trigger again. The sound of the last shot seemed to echo around him. He waited, gun still pointed toward the car. In case he’d missed.

  After a few minutes, Micah relaxed and looked at Clarissa, who had not budged. He watched her, waiting for acknowledgement for what he had done. He expected her to scream; at the very least to give him a “How could you kill them?” rant.

  Nothing.

  She blinked at him and blinked again, not a tear in her eyes.

  Micah walked over to Jeff. Blood puddled around Jeff’s throat, but he was still alive, his chest slowly rising then falling as blood pulsed from a hole in his neck. He wouldn’t live for long.

  Walking over to the car window, Micah looked at Jeff’s father. The old man played possum well. He held his breath, waiting for his moment to strike, but Micah saw his eyes twitch.

  As the old man sat up, arms reaching for Micah, fingers curled like claws, Micah shot him again.

  After Micah had pulled Jeff off the hood and his father out of the car. He went through their pockets for whatever he could find. There was nothing except the car keys in Jeff’s front pocket and an outdated road map in the old man’s inside jacket pocket.

  That was all Micah needed. He led Clarissa to the car and tucked her in the front seat; the back was smeared with the old man’s blood. Turning the car on, Micah took in a deep breath of dusty air. The air smelled of freedom.

  He turned to Clarissa, “I hate the name Charles, but I’ll call him Charlie.”

  Clarissa patted Micah on the knee, taking a swig from the water bottle Jeff had handed her many hours before.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  All of Them

  Manuel felt an absence. Something was gone; not missing but gone. He had spent the morning lying in bed, feeling the void of something gone.

  Maybe it wasn’t a nothing, but a something. Something not fleeing but done. Finished, gone.

  What could it be, worried Manuel. Life in the Gardener camp had always been one of not knowing. Not knowing when and if Madam would pull the plug on their safety. Not knowing if their next crop of food would feed them all, and there were many mouths to feed. Not knowing how his day would go; if there would be meat on the table that night or breakfast the next day.

  He missed the mundane.

  Manuel longed for a job, where he sat at a desk all day, chatting with coworkers about their pets, children, spouses; eating the same sandwich for lunch day after day because he had no imagination for anything else.

  Those days. Those long days of mind-numbing sameness were now a cherished memory. The special times he’d had, the Christmas parties with his family in Mexico, the endless days on the beach in Rosarito—he cherished none of that now.

  Manuel longed for the simplicity of typing away on a keyboard; the sputtering coffee maker in the break room; Sunday morning mass followed by Sunday afternoon binge-watching TV and bemoaning the start of another work week. Then, life had been easy, but more importantly, there was no “not knowing.”

  Hearing the front door of their trailer open, Manuel listened for footsteps. Robert’s footsteps always called for attention. Manuel heard authority in each pound of Robert’s feet on the floor. Jacob’s footsteps were different. They were almost playful, as if he spent his time skipping through the day.

  Steps pounded towards Manuel, and he knew it was his husband Robert. If Manuel asked the right questions, if he deferred indifference, maybe he could see what puzzle piece was missing from Robert. The man he loved. The man he’d promised to live with no matter the circumstance. But Robert was a person who never answered questions directly or honestly.

  These were his faults; faults Manuel had learned to accept and live within their limits.

  “Where is Jacob?” asked Manuel when Robert opened up the bedroom door. This was an easy question, one that Robert would answer if questioned directly.

  “With the Robertson family. I sent him there so he wouldn’t know Suzy had left. I’ll fetch him in two days.” Robert loved their son, but Manuel feared he was never as careful with him as he should be.

  Jacob had Down syndrome, was nonverbal, and a beautiful human being. Manuel understood that Jacob’s heart was softer than others. He cared deeper than most. Jacob loved harder. Manuel had always treated their son with kitten hands, not because Jacob was not capable but because Manuel did not want to damage a flawless soul.

  “I spied our son-in-law hiding in Granny’s trailer, with a kid.” Robert pulled off his shirt and flopped onto their bed.

  Manuel wished he’d showered before dirtying their sheets with the continual grime of the Gardener camp.

  They had
referred to Danny as their son-in-law tongue in cheek behind Jen’s back for years. Manuel played along with the nickname because he didn’t want to tell Robert the truth of what he believed.

  Jen was a restless soul. Her spirit didn’t sit inside her but clung to her as if afraid of being flicked off. Manuel knew her love for Danny was deep, real, but would it last beyond the Gardener camp? Manuel was not sure. To tag Danny with the son-in-law nickname was not fair to either of them.

  Manuel stood up, clearing his head of the fog. “What do you mean hiding in Granny’s trailer? Why would he hide at camp?” The question might be too direct for Robert’s taste. Manuel quickly added, “Are the Nutri-Corp elite sneaking in? Are there drones?”

  There, thought Manuel, Robert would have to pick a response and not skitter around the answer.

  “Drones. And they killed a woman. I think she was with Danny. I buried her, next to what was left of Daisy.”

  Ah, thought Manuel, there it was. The something finished. The something gone. Manuel could now remove the thorn in his side that was Daisy.

  Knowing he would never see or hear Daisy again gave Manuel a deep sense of ease and relief, and he would not be ashamed of his joy at that.

  Manuel kissed his husband, knowing that it was something he did not need, but Robert did.

  “I’m going out to rescue our son-in-law,” Manuel announced, looking over at Robert whose eyes were now shut. A soft snore billowed from his mouth.

  Manuel pulled Robert’s boots off his feet, then slid them onto his own feet. The boots felt overly warm and moist. The feel of them on his feet was unsettling, but Manuel reminded himself that things like a good, solid pair of boots were scarce in the Gardner camp. Having someone’s boots was better than no boots.

  Lola felt uneasy, as if she was a door that hung loosely at the hinges. She needed someone to tighten the screws, shut the door, and lock it tightly with a deadbolt.

  The Hills was so normal but not normal. The homes looked like any suburban home. Children played in the streets. There were a few stores open for business.

  In The Hills, there was gasoline for the vehicles and a pizza place with a large neon OPEN sign flickering in the window.

  There were also people walking the streets openly carrying guns. An enormous wall comprised of industrial shipping containers lined the city. The containers were electrified. If you touched one you’d get zapped. According to a guard who stood on watch on a deck above the containers, that zap was strong enough to stop a heart.

  That guard, named Hank, had shouted, “Stop!” when the sisters had reached toward a container. Chandler had quickly explained who they were and where they’d fled from. As the guard spoke into a radio, she also explained about the electrified containers.

  A wide door in one of the containers swung open, and he told them to come inside but to be careful and not touch the sides of the corridor. Hank must have noticed the fear in Suzy’s eyes as she clenched Lola’s hand because once they were inside the ring of containers, Hank who had known Chandler since she was a young child told them to go to the ice cream shop down the block and get a free “welcome to The Hills” cone on him.

  Suzy jumped at this. Ice cream was an exotic thing for her. Something only eaten in far-off lands, the rarest of special treats to a girl raised on veggies, grains, and whatever her sister could glean from the leftovers of Old Town.

  Chandler’s father had greeted his daughter with tears of relief followed by a smile of unfiltered joy. He told her and the three sisters that her kidnapping had convinced the people of The Hills to institute around-the-clock security. Everyone took their turn roaming the streets, like a city-wide Neighborhood Watch. Years ago, her father had also come up with the perimeter wall of shipping containers and the idea to electrify them. Everyone, from babies to grandparents, now wore a yellow armband to show that they belonged to The Hills.

  The Hills felt safe, but something lurked in the corners, something Lola could not name. “Threadbare” popped into Lola’s head, a sense that at any moment someone would pull one thread and everything in The Hills would unravel.

  Suzy smiled at the librarian and did her best not to giggle. The librarian looked like what Suzy thought she would. She had brown curly hair that was crazy big and looked like she never combed it. The librarian, named Mrs. Ortiz, also wore thick glasses, big ugly sandals, a long skirt, and a huge man’s shirt. Suzy thought she looked like a sweet, green witch from a book.

  Mrs. Ortiz knew where all the books were in the library. Whatever Suzy asked for, she could take Suzy straight to it. Mrs. Ortiz was impressed by the books Suzy had told her she’d read. Suzy told her about the library and her safe spot on the sofa. Mrs. Ortiz smiled when Suzy told her she was the Gardener camp librarian and that she would take a list of books the others wanted to the library and fulfill orders, much as Mrs. Ortiz did now for Suzy. Mrs. Ortiz was Suzy’s rockstar, and Suzy was definitely star struck.

  Chandler, Jen, and Lola sat outside on the library steps, giving Suzy her space to fawn over the books, the building, and the librarian. They patiently waited, together yet apart, each one lost in thoughts of her own.

  Chandler went over what she would say to the people of The Hills tonight at a town meeting.

  Lola thought of her unease and her desire for a dark place to hide.

  Jen lost herself in thoughts of normalcy in a place like The Hills where she could live as normal as she could, far away from Nutri-Corp and the Gardener camp. Those thoughts didn’t include Danny. They should always include Danny, she told herself, but those thoughts always led to feeling guilty.

  BD eyed the container wall, the platform above the containers, and the armed citizens on the platform standing guard, watching all the approaches to The Hills. The wall went on for miles, disappearing into the distance left and right, and BD wanted to stand on a platform with his Shaky and watch for any of Madam’s minions.

  He could picture himself shooting them down. He could see himself standing, his toes acting like normal toes. With YUM out of his system, BD’s toes had relaxed for the first time in years. The constant spasming of his toes that caused so much heartache, so much endless discomfort and pain, was gone. With real food in his belly, he felt stronger. He longed to stand on the platform and bellow how strong he was, loud enough it would reach Nutri-Corp. BD felt born again and the need to share this newfound vigor pulsed in his blood.

  A guard at ground level had grown uneasy as BD loitered near the wall, looking up and down its length. “You with Chandler, right?” the guard asked.

  “Yes,” answered BD, almost in a bark. “Where do I sign up for duty?”

  That brought a smile to the guard's face, and he nodded with understanding.

  Joe, AKA Sir, lit a cigarette as he contemplated heading home. The next twenty-four hours would be hard to navigate with Madam. She would be distracted not by Danny but by Dolly’s being gone with Danny. Dolly was Madam’s prize pony, never to be moved from the stable. Joe didn’t have to see Madam’s face to know she raged with anger.

  Joe could use the temper tantrum Madam would undoubtedly have to persuade her to allow him to attack the Gardner camp with Nutri-Corp soldiers. In the fertile soil of her rage, Joe knew he could plant the seed that Danny had run away to his girlfriend at the Gardener camp. That would easily persuade her to act rashly. He’d take as many soldiers as he could.

  And leave Nutri-Corp City dangerously unguarded.

  Flicking ash from his cigarette, Joe whistled a mindless tune. His time with Madam was at an end. He hoped she would be at an end as well. He had a carnal desire to see her liquefied by a Shaky, to watch the Shaky beads pound her gorgeous face into pulp and splinter her long, talon-like nails. She had to pay for her sins, and Joe—or, as everyone knew him, Sir—would make sure of it.

  Taking a pull from his cigarette, Joe felt his sins enter the room. His sins stood, back to the wall, staring at him. They did not point fingers, but they were there to make him
repent, to go forward with a squeaky-clean soul.

  Joe knew his sins wished him well, but he couldn’t give them that. There was so much more sinning to do.

  Robert looked into Dolly’s eyes. They did not reflect where she came from, whom she came from. Dolly, like Danny, was Madam’s child.

  The offspring of a She-Devil.

  “Can I get you something to eat?” asked Robert, and at once he regretted asking. She was on YUM of course, but she and Danny did not tic.

  “Neither one of you have tics. Why is that?” asked Robert, watching Danny inhale a second bowl of noodle soup.

  “I don’t take YUM. I fake taking it,” Danny said. “Lola and Jen have been sneaking me food for years.”

  Dolly looked at her brother, eyes wide, and he wouldn’t look at her.

  “And,” Danny continued. “Not everyone tics. Dolly has never had tics.”

  “I’m given food,” Dolly said and looked down, as if she were ashamed.

  Danny’s head jerked toward her. “What?”

  “Madam secretly feeds me real food. I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone.”

  “No,” Danny said, with an emphatic head-shake. “You get YUM every day. Sir oversees it.”

  “It’s not real YUM.”

  “Madam secretly feeds me real food.”

  Dolly’s words echoed in Danny’s head. His stomach threatened to bring the delicious soup back up. With Madam, “real food” could be anything, anyone.

  The one called Manuel smiled then, a tired smile, but it was given anyway. “Would you like some soup?” he asked Dolly, soup ladle in hand.

  Danny being Danny with his endless need for food had taken the offered soup at once.

  “Water,” responded Dolly. “Maybe some soup in a little while. I’m really thirsty. I want a lot of water.”