Mort: Deluxe Illustrated Edition (The Fearlanders)

by Joseph Duncan

  “The way she looked at me, like she just saw the devil, I knew what it was. There’s not much that ruffles her tailfeathers. I went to the window and peeked out over her shoulder and sure enough, he was down there. I could tell it was him ‘cause of his outfit. Basketball shorts and a white tee-shirt and those ridiculous fucking flip-flops. I don’t know how he managed to keep ‘em on, but he was still wearing them, swear to God!

  “He was deader than dogshit, face half eaten off, all black and shit with foam running out his mouth, but it was him. Weird thing is, he was just sort of wandering around in circles in front of the apartment complex.

  “Tina starts shaking after a few minutes and then she says, ‘He knows we’re in here,’ in this weird little girl voice. You might think she meant we as in me and her, but she didn’t. She meant her and the baby. That gave me the heebie jeebies, let me tell you! Cold chills went running up my back. But I says, ‘He don’t know that, hon. It’s just a coincidence. He’ll wander off soon enough. They always do.’

  “But she insisted. He knew she was there. Her and the baby, and finally I asts, ‘Well, what do you want me to do about it?’ and she looks me dead in the eyes.

  “‘I want you to kill him,’ she says.”

  Mort gaped at the man. “What did you do?”

  Bob shrugged. “I killed him.”

  “Oh, she didn’t mean it in a vengeful way,” Bob went on as the line advanced toward the front doors again. “It wasn’t like she wanted to get him back for abandoning her in the car. She just wanted me to put him out of his misery. She loved him, and she felt sorry for him. He was her baby’s daddy. Plus, she wanted to make sure her child was safe. She didn’t like the way he just stood there at the foot of the building and stared up at our window like he could see right through the walls. It unnerved her.

  “So I says, ‘Okay.’ Just that, and then I grabbed my shovel and went downstairs.

  “I eased out into the alley, and when the coast was clear, I kind of give out a whistle. Poor ol’ Calvin heard me right off, and he come running after me like someone rang the dinner bell. It kind of startled me. Tina told me later he used to run track in high school, and I was like, ‘Thanks for warning me, lady,‘ but that was after. I waited with my shovel cocked back, and when he came in range, I let him have it. I nailed him right in the head. Klong! Knocked him right out of those fucking flip-flops. Finally! And before he could get back up, I stepped across him and used the edge of the shovel to cut his head off.”

  All this he told Mort as they waited in line at the commissary.

  He didn’t tell Mort how he’d had to chop at Calvin Voyles’s neck again and again before he finally severed it completely, or how he had puked all over them both when the man’s head finally came off and went rolling away down the alley, leaving a trail of ichor behind it. He didn’t tell Mort how the man’s head retained a semblance of savage life even after he’d cut it off, and that it had stared at him with mindless hatred when he picked it up by the hair and carried it to the nearest dumpster, how it had bared its teeth and snapped, how its lips had wriggled like black slimy worms as if it were cursing him. He didn’t tell Mort how he woke up screaming that night, sheets soaked with sweat, and how Tina had lain down beside him, just meaning to comfort him, but they had somehow ended up making love, her on top, and though she was the most beautiful woman he had ever made love to, and though he loved her, he could not shake a terrible sense of guilt, as if they had conspired together to murder a living man.

  It made no sense. Calvin Voyles was already dead, just another victim of the Phage, one out of billions, but Bob felt guilty all the same.

  Sometimes, when he was exhausted or depressed, and he happened to catch a glimpse of himself in a mirror or a darkened window, the thought rose up, unbidden, in his mind, only it wasn’t his voice, it was the voice of Sister Harris, one of the nuns who taught at the private school he’d attended as a boy, and in her crow-like crone’s voice, which had so terrorized him as a child, she denounced him: Murderer! He knew Tina had only asked him to kill her boyfriend out of mercy, and mercy was the only reason he had gone down into that alley to kill Mr. Flip-flops-- mercy, and the fear that maybe she was right, it made no sense but maybe her dead boyfriend did know she was there, and he might figure out some way to get at her and her baby (some of the weirdos were creepily clever)-- but sometimes Bob wondered how he was going to look at her baby after the child was born and not feel like a murdering usurper.

  Some things you just couldn’t tell the gimp down the hall, no matter how trustworthy he might seem to be.

  Instead, he told Mort how the Archons had saved them.

  They were eating supper-- canned Spam, canned green beans and canned corn-- when Tina put her fork down with a little clink and began to massage her temples. Bob opened his mouth, intending to ask her if she was okay. She got migraines sometimes, didn’t know why, but they were so bad she had to lie in bed with a cool rag on her forehead. The next thing he knew, he was standing on the roof of the Rosemont.

  It was like a drunken blackout, a phenomenon he was all too familiar with from his salad days. One minute he was sitting at the kitchen table in his apartment, candle flickering between the two of them, a spoonful of lukewarm canned corn hovering a couple inches from his mouth. The next he was outside, stars sprawled across the sky overhead and the whole dark, dead city spread around them.

  Tina was standing beside him, the wind was blowing through her hair, a chill autumn wind that smelled of rot and burned rubber. Facing them across the roof were several shadowed figures, their bodies unnaturally tall and slender. He didn’t get a good look at them. All he had was a sense of long, wasted limbs and cold white skin.

  And eyes.

  Even in the dark, he could feel their eyes on him, and it made the hair on the back of his neck stand straight up.

  Tina started beside him as if she had just become aware of her surroundings and cried out, “Bob! What are those things?” The fear in her voice spurred him to action. Adrenaline surging, he balled his hands into fists and stalked toward them.

  And that’s when the one nearest to him spread its wings.

  Great wings snapped from behind the creature’s back with a sound like a whipcrack as the emaciated creature shouted, “Stay your violence, human! We have come to deliver you from this dead city!”

  Bob, who was raised a Catholic, fell to his knees like he’d been hamstrung. His jaw dropped to his chest but no sound came out of him save an exhalation of disbelief. Behind him, Tina moaned, “Oh, Jesus!” but her voice was very distant. For the first time since he laid eyes on her, Tina Laramie was insignificant to Bob Hawthorne. Less than insignificant. She was a dream of a dream. There was room in his mind for only one thing: the angel walking gravidly toward him, wings gulled out in a feral threat display.

  “I am Paraplex,” the creature said, holding its hand toward him.

  “Buh-Bob,” he stammered. “Bob Hawthorne.”

  “We know who you are,” the creature said.

  He took the being’s hand and felt himself hefted into its cool embrace. Slowly the creature’s wings lowered, the primary feathers closing with a tiny rustling sound and then folding, like the blades of a window blind, over the secondary feathers. A part of him was frightened, but the fear was as distant as the woman standing on the roof with him. The greatest part of his awareness was occupied by awe, awe and disbelief.

  Bob only caught the name of one of the others, a childlike female named Hekate. Paraplex and Hekate carried Bob and Tina to New Jerusalem while the others flapped away in a different direction-- searching for more survivors, he presumed.

  They were among the first to arrive at New Jerusalem.

  “Which one rescued you?” Bob asked as he and Mort moved steadily toward the doors. “If you don’t mind me asking,” he added.

  “I don’t mind. Its name was Metatron.”

  “Wow,” Bob said, impressed. “He’s one of the hig
h muckamucks. He’s like Yaldabaoth’s second-in-command, or personal assistant or something.”

  “I’ve heard of him.”

  “Yaldabaoth?” Bob asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah, he’s...” He didn’t know how to describe the creature, so he waved his hands and blew through his lips.

  Finally, they moved into the building. Mort relaxed as the warmth enveloped him, fingers working on the tender muscle of his left thigh. They chatted a little longer as they made their way to the first window, and then they were occupied with getting Mort the provisions he needed. Mort stepped aside and let Bob haggle with the commissary staff, amused by his new friend’s tenaciousness. Bob was like a bulldog.

  “Twenty credits!” Bob screeched in disbelief. This over a pair of jeans. “Look at the poor schmuck! Don’t you think he’s got it bad enough without you people trying to rip him off? My homeboy here needs all the credits he’s got. Can’t you see he’s got a medical condition? He’s practically a cripple!” Mort hadn’t worn his toboggan this morning and Bob gesticulated wildly toward the scars on his head.

  The guy behind the counter sighed wearily. “Listen, Bob, we all got a sad story. We’re still waiting for the scouting crews to bring back more clothes and stuff. I can give him a break on some socks and underwear, but I gotta charge full price for the retard’s pants and shirts.”

  “All right, all right... Twenty credits for the pants, but the socks and underwear are free.”

  Walking back with his new clothes, Mort said,“I’m not really retarded, you know.”

  Bob laughed.“I know that, bro. But you got some free drawers. You gotta learn how to work the system, man! You look like Cujo’s chew toy. You should take advantage of it while you can.”

  17

  Reunion

  Mort reported for his first day of work in the blue yard cafeteria on a bitterly cold Monday, December 1.

  A couple days had passed since his release from the infirmary. He had used that time to settle into his new “apartment”, such as it was, and his new life in New Jerusalem. Bob and Tina, Dorm Eight’s unofficial “den mom and dad” were an enormous help. They talked Mickey Hahn into trading rooms with him so Mort wouldn’t have to limp up and down four flights of stairs every day. Mickey had one of the primo rooms on the first floor and was reluctant to give it up, but Tina had unleashed the full force of her syrupy sweet Southern charm on him. She was nearly due and big as a house, but she could still tempt the devil out of his tights if she set her mind to it, she was that gorgeous. Mickey had moved his belongings to Mort’s fourth floor apartment with a goofy, if somewhat confused, grin on his face, not really sure how or why he’d volunteered to trade his digs to the gimpy new guy.

  After the move, Tina helped Mort with his bedding and put his clothes away. She had seen him fumbling around with the sheets, favoring his bad leg, through the open door and waded in, ordering Mort to sit down and let her do it. Mort was embarrassed, and watching the morbidly pregnant woman make his bed and fold his new drawers, his cheeks began to burn with shame, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  “So how do you like your new room, sugar?” she asked as she folded his blanket back and fluffed his pillow.

  “Love it!”

  “I doesn’t have any windows, but it’s warmer down here by the commons,” she said, moving to the pile of laundry sitting on the counter by the sink.

  “It’s nice. Big.” His leg didn’t seem to throb as badly either.

  Tina finished folding and putting away his new underwear and stood up straight, pushing an errant strand of honey blond hair from her face. “You know what this room needs?” she asked, hands on her hips.

  “What?”

  “Christmas decorations!” she cried. “I’m going to get some!” She marched from the room, returning a few minutes later with a brown paper sack full of garland and sparkling glass globes. “Mickey was such a grinch,” she said. “He wouldn’t let me put up anything.”

  “Please,” Mort said, rising, “let me help.”

  “All right, sweety. We’ll do it together.”

  For the next half hour, the two of them hung Christmas ornaments and strung garland. When they were finished and Mort’s new room was properly “yuletided”, Tina grabbed them a couple sandwiches and pops and they had lunch together in his room, exchanging stories of their fondest Christmas memories. For Mort, it was the year his father got laid off from work. His dad had spent all of December and January at home, drawing his unemployment benefits.

  “Money was kind of tight so I didn’t get a lot of presents that year,” Mort said, “but I didn’t care. My dad and I hung out that whole Christmas break.”

  “Awwww,” Tina said, taking his hand and squeezing it. “That is so sweet!” She laughed and wiped her eyes. “Oh, now look--! I’m leakin’ again! Don’t mind me, hon. It’s just pregnancy hormones.”

  “You look like you’re ready to pop any day now,” Mort said.

  Tina laughed, “I know! I’ve gotten big as a house! I swear, I keep waiting for my belly button to pop out like the cooking button on a Thanksgiving turkey. It’s my first child. I wish it was Bob’s, but we didn’t know each other before the plague. We didn’t meet until all the... the bad stuff happened. He looked out for me until the Archons saved us and brought us here to New Jerusalem. Well, actually, he still looks after me. He’s a wonderful man.”

  They sat smiling at one another. Without warning, Tina leapt to her feet and started gathering the remains of their lunch. “Listen to me! I swear, my daddy was right! My tongue is hinged on both ends. You look wore out. I’ll just clean this up and let you get some rest.”

  She looked tired herself, Mort reflected. Her naturally tawny skin was a tad too yellow, her eyes hollow.

  “You should get a little rest yourself,” Mort said. “You look a little peaked.”

  “Peaked?” Tina laughed softly, rubbing the impressive mound of her stomach. “That’s a nice way of puttin’ it. My feet are swelled up like sausages. Yeah, I think I’ll do that. Bob would chew my butt if he knew I been puttin’ up Christmas decorations.”

  Mort thanked her and told her to thank Bob for him too, then popped a pain pill and stretched out on his new bunk. He dropped off to sleep almost immediately and dozed through the whole afternoon despite the noise coming from the common area.

  He woke that evening, walked across the campus to one of the cafeterias and had a solitary dinner, then returned to the dorm. The TV in the commons was playing It’s a Wonderful Life. Mort sat on the ratty sofa next to a guy who looked like he might have been a big rig driver in his former life, but he couldn’t get interested in the movie. He had watched it too many times growing up. It had been his mother’s favorite holiday film.

  That was his excuse anyway. He didn’t want to dwell on the fact that he was having trouble following the images on the screen. He couldn’t seem to keep track of who was who. All the faces just sort of drifted around like blank gray balloons.

  He rose and limped to his room. He popped another pain pill, worried he would have trouble weaning himself off them once he was completely recovered, but that was a bridge he would cross when he came to it, he decided. He needed them right now, couldn’t sleep without them.

  He woke in the wee hours of the morning, confused and frightened. He had dreamt about zombies. In his dream, he was back in his apartment in DuChamp. The undead had found him somehow, sniffed him out, and were howling and battering at his door. They were going to bust in any moment, and when they got in they would tear him apart, eat him alive. He scrambled out of bed as if bits of the nightmare had followed him into the waking world and were squirming around in his bedsheets like vermin. He was dripping with sweat, felt polluted, unclean.

  He went to the sink and splashed some water in his face, then put on some fresh clothes. It was too early to report to work, his papers said he needed to go in at six, so he puttered around his room for a while. Bore
d, he went and sat in the commons. The lights were low, the dormitory echoey in the hush. He found an old People magazine stuck down in the cushion of the sofa and started flipping through it. Let’s see what Tom and Kate were doing before the zombies ate ‘em, he thought.

  He frowned, trying to make sense of the images on the glossy pages. He could read the words, but the pictures, for the most part, refused to come clear. They were just swirls of color. Frustrated, he tossed the magazine aside.

  After a while, the residents of Dorm Eight began to stir. A few alarm clocks went off. A couple guys wandered to the showers and emerged with wet hair and clean clothes. Neither spoke to him. They drank coffee and departed for their jobs.

  Finally, Bob got up. He plodded to the kitchen and emerged with a cup of coffee. He was dressed in sweatpants and a tee-shirt, hair smashed flat on one side and sticking up in spikes on the other.

  He saw Mort and wandered over. “Morning.”

  “Morning.”

  “Sleep good?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Today’s your first day of work, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Excited?”

  “Nervous. It’ll be good to have something to do, but I’m worried I won’t be able to handle it. Physically, I mean. My leg’s still a bit tricky. It wants to go out on me when I’m not expecting it.”

  Bob slurped his coffee, nodding. “Well this ain’t a workcamp,” he said when Mort finished speaking. “If yer supervisor gives you any shit, just tell him to kiss yer ass.”

  Tina called for him then and he saluted Mort with his coffee cup. “Duty calls.”

  When it was light out, Mort rose and hobbled to his room. He grabbed some clean clothes and crossed the hall to the showers. An old man in oversized underwear followed Mort around the locker room, flapping his gums about some war or other. Mort listened politely as he showered and got dressed for his first day of work. Finally, he had to interrupt. “Well, it’s been nice talking to you, but I have to get going. I don’t want to be late for work.” The old man was still talking when Mort sidled from the locker room.