When he'd awakened, he was lying on the ceiling of the towncar. Amanda was still looking at him. Her neck was bent obscenely so that her cheek was crushed against a breast, and her eyes were red with blood. Doug was beside Moorecourt. His chest rose and fell slightly, though the expression on his face was frozen. Moorecourt, without thinking, reached out to touch it. He tried to say something and couldn't. Doug stopped breathing.
The senator was now limping along the north wall of the Harbor, glancing over his shoulder to see the two undead in slow but relentless pursuit. They were starving, desperate, and wouldn't give up until they fell completely apart; just like the survivors inside these walls.
He breathlessly turned a corner and found that the west wall wasn't like the others. There might be an opening! Moorecourt tore at the fencing and felt it giving. His hands were red and raw. He screamed and pulled with his entire body. The fence snapped free, hitting his face and knocking him to the ground. Wetness spread quickly from the cuts in his skin. He didn't care. Through the fence and into the city.
He was greeted by what appeared to be a cluster of storage units. The size of garages, most of them were wide open and empty. To his right, past a weathered wooden fence, was a foul-smelling swamp. He weaved through the units and ignored the ache in his lungs. At least he still had a good heart. Moorecourt had always kept himself in shape. At first it was for his constituents, but once it became clear that his post was probably a lifelong one he did it for himself. Boys could barely resist his status; his lean physique more often than not closed the deal. And of course the other senators knew. No one tried anymore to conceal habits that, for previous generations, spelled political suicide. For any Americans who still paid attention to the government, the Senate was their only hope. They were more than politicians now - a woman in Chicago told him that she prayed to the Senate.
There was no President of the United States. After the Secret Service was forced to dismember the last Commander-in-Chief on his desk in the Oval Office, the romantic notion of one man's will leading a people lost its luster.
How long had Moorecourt been running since the accident? An hour? Two? The sun was no help at guessing the time. He couldn't stand to look up at it. Moorecourt paused in the doorway of a storage unit and felt the stiffness in his neck. He couldn't move it at all.
The swamp had ended, giving way to several large buildings. Warehouses? Surely a place to hide, maybe a radio. He pulled himself over the creaking wooden fence and tried not to land on his wounded foot.
BAM! Something struck the other side of the fence. Moorecourt staggered back, seeing the yellowed eyeball of an undead staring through a knothole. His pursuers had caught up with him. They beat their open hands against the wood, gaping mouths never making a sound. The old fence shook precariously. Moorecourt ran.
Faded letters on the largest warehouse read KAGEN'S OF LOUISIANA, a grocery. Moorecourt collided with the nearest entrance and was thrown back onto the sidewalk. Locked? WHY? Was there still food kept inside? He couldn't imagine. Moorecourt slammed his fists against the door. "Anyone inside LET ME IN!!" A block behind him, a section of wooden fence collapsed and the two zombies staggered through.
A loud crack tore through the air. The senator looked back to see a chunk of skull and hair flying away from one zombie's head. Thank God! Moorecourt peered around the corner of the warehouse to see where his rescuer was- -
Another shot buzzed past his ear. He fell to the pavement again. "I'M NOT ONE OF THEM!!"
The undead were still coming. Moorecourt searched for another entrance to the warehouse. Another door, slightly ajar, reluctantly gave way under his weight. He fell into the building and kicked the door shut with his good foot.
He was on his back in an enormous room with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with boxes. Using a shelf for support, he made his way down an aisle, reading the contents of the boxes. Soup, ramen, seasoning, powdered milk, all non-perishables. Just add water. He was shocked to see so much still here, then he nudged one of the boxes and realized that it was empty.
There was a clatter from across the warehouse.
Moorecourt pushed a box aside and crawled onto the bottom shelf, his foot throbbing now. He eased himself between the boxes as quietly as possible. Damn hands shaking, threatening to give out beneath him; he fought to hold himself steady, knowing that if he lost his balance and fell in either direction, the empty boxes would give way and dump him into the open.
Someone walked past the end of the aisle. Moorecourt saw ratty hair & pale skin, but clean, pressed clothing. The footfalls of several persons echoed through the room. Would they believe who he was? Would they care? Or would revealing himself to them result in a fate worse than being caught by any undead? He cursed himself again for leaving behind the weapons in the Humvee. Then, a young woman entered the aisle, wearing a flowery spring dress, and he saw the dead glaze of her eyes and realized she was a zombie.
She came down the aisle with a man in a suit jacket and slacks. His hair was combed. COMBED. Moorecourt looked back at the woman's face, so lifelike - she was wearing makeup. His heart was seized by terror. He had heard that the dead could regenerate tissue if they fed often enough, but had never seen a well-fed rotter. He'd doubted that such a thing could possibly exist out in the badlands. But these...had these undead restored their flesh, their muscles, their very minds? Were there remnants of memory that compelled them to wear clean clothing and groom themselves? It wasn't possible. Couldn't be. Yet as the lady stood before Moorecourt, the senator cringing, barely concealed behind a box, he noticed the lovely shape of her calves, white as they were.
The afterdead had a sole purpose: self-preservation. They didn't reproduce, they didn't interact with one another, and they certainly didn't bathe. They only ate and ate and ate in order to keep from rotting into nothing. But these two in the aisle were opening boxes on the upper shelves, searching them - together - for foodstuffs. The male produced a large bag of rice and tucked it under his arm. None of it made sense. They evidently ate enough human flesh to stay healthy, yet they were raiding the warehouse for rice?
Something about it all nearly clicked for Moorecourt as he trembled on the bottom shelf. Makeup, clothes, groceries. But the answer was just beyond his grasp. The answer was something that he could never have imagined, even if he had lived many, many more years, which wasn't going to happen either.
4.
The House in the Swamp
It was a three-story manor fashioned from stone, a stately Victorian nestled in the overgrowth of the thick, dark green swamp. Contained within an ivy-thronged iron fence, it barely stood above the heads of the encroaching trees. Some of the manor's outermost extremities had fallen into disarray; the greenhouse adjoining the north wing had lost its roof in a storm years ago. Some of the ground floor's grime-streaked windows were broken. Errant stones loosed from the wall lay in the spongy grass. The south end of the manor had sunk slightly into the mud, and moss crawled skyward over its surface. And for all its grandeur, even in such a condition - there was an air of rot that hung over the house. Even the clouds overheard seemed to be stained gray. Things moved in the tall grass, in the remains of a once-beautiful garden and in the swamp beyond the gates.
The gates opened. Four afterdead entered, the first holding a key. He waited to lock up behind the others. They were the ones from the Kagen's of Louisiana warehouse and they'd brought back several boxes filled to the brim with groceries. The young woman in the spring dress led the procession through the manor's front doors.
It was dim inside. Their vision, poor as it was, failed completely inside the foyer. But they knew the halls and rooms of the house by heart and walked, single-file, past the grand staircase and through the dining room.
"Stop."
The voice came from behind them. The woman in the spring dress halted in the doorway leading into the kitchen.
A man entered the dining room and stared hard at the four undead. They each looked str
aight ahead, clutching their boxes.
He was in his late twenties, perhaps, younger in appearance than the dead ones; tousled hair fell in front of bright green eyes as he knelt to scrutinize the carpeted floor. He dragged a fingertip along the fibers, pulled up a glob of mud. The man rose to show the mud to the zombies.
"I told you," he said in a calm-before-the-storm tone, "to bring things into the kitchen through the rear entrance. I also told you to remove your shoes when you entered the house. Even in the foyer. It doesn't matter if the floor is stone." As he lectured them, the man seemed to be speaking more to himself, realizing that the dead felt no shame or remorse for disobedience. But there were still consequences, ones that they could understand.
"You won't eat today. Put those things in the kitchen and go outside. Aidan, Harry - trim the grass and maybe you'll eat tomorrow."
The afterdead shuffled out of the room. The man sighed and looked at the filthy carpet. "Prudence!"
A female undead in a maid's uniform loped into the room. One of her legs had been gouged by something and hindered her movement. The man pointed to the mess. "Clean it. Dust this entire room in fact." He left her and went into the foyer, up the staircase.
Baron Tetch had lived here for as long as he could remember, but things still weren't to his satisfaction. Maybe they never would be. Not only was he a savage perfectionist, but he was suffering from a growing misanthropy and a bitter contempt for this whole earthly plane. There was very little to keep him grounded here. Entering his second-floor study, he locked the door behind him and kicked off his loafers.
A corpse lay on the floor. It had been some intruder from the previous week who'd climbed the fence, probably fleeing from undead. But the feral zombies that occasionally penetrated Jefferson Harbor were nothing compared to Tetch's. They'd made short work of the man. Tetch had rewarded them with his internal organs before having the rest of him brought upstairs.
Swathed in moist rags scented with spices, the body lay spread out in the middle of the room. The face was caved in, gray flesh like paper peeling away from the wound. Tetch spread a blanket over the open cavity of the corpse's torso.
Even those who died under normal circumstances had dormant energy lying in their husks, of that Tetch was certain. Pulling a tattered shroud over his bony shoulders, he straddled the corpse's body and closed his eyes. The wasted energy inside the eviscerated man was drawn through Tetch's flesh, saturating his bones, travelling like a lightning bolt to his head. He plunged his fingers through the blanket and into the corpse's body. Tetch spread crimson grit across his forehead, throwing open the conduits throughout his self. A throbbing erection grew between his legs.
He heard the study door open. Tetch yanked the shroud around his body and glared.
It was Lilith. Her frail little body looked as if it could be torn asunder by the rage from Tetch's eyes; he quickly softened his face, clutching the shroud over his groin, and stood up. "Why didn't you knock?"
In response, she held out her pale arms. She'd cut her wrists. Tetch rushed to her, pushing back the sleeves of her dress and catching droplets of blood in his hands. "Lily, why?? Oh, God!" She'd cut across rather than down, and not very deeply thanks to her child's strength. Still the sight was horrifying, her perfect ivory flesh marred and her bright blue eyes devoid of reason. "They don't bleed like I do," she mumbled. "Of course they don't. You're not like them. You know that!" Tetch grabbed the shoulder of her dress and tore its sleeve free. Lily squealed, but he silenced her with a stern look, tying the fabric over one of the wounds. She didn't say anything when he pulled the other sleeve off. "This is why we can't have nice things." He snapped. She caught herself before rolling her eyes.
There. She was patched up, for now. "Do NOT remove these. Now tell me what you used." He rose over her, arms crossed. She stared at the corpse behind him. He stepped over to block her view. "Lily. Look at me."
She complied. Her lip was trembling slightly. In fear? Of him? It was hard to resist the urge to take her into his arms. Her ripening breasts, almost visible through the thin fabric of the dress, reminded Tetch of his erection, and he realized he was idly nudging it with his fist. Turning from her, he went to his desk and fumbled through the drawers until he found his camera.
"Oh no, not like this!" Lily raised her bandaged wrists and frowned at the ruined dress. "This picture will be a reminder to you," Tetch shot back. He loaded a fresh roll of film. It was a precious commodity and he only used it to mark the days of Lilith's life. "You're not like your brothers and sisters. You can get hurt, you can bleed, and you can die." A thought struck him: was she bleeding herself to take away the power of his threats? His power? He studied her glassy eyes. She could never... "You don't want to be like them, Lily. It's not real. Your beauty could never be preserved in death, do you understand? Your soul would be lost." He raised the camera to his face. She forced a smile. "Don't." He ordered. Snap. Snap. Snap.
"Now I want you to stay inside, up here. Don't go downstairs. I don't want to risk anything happening, should they smell your blood." They were animals after all, despite the facade of sophistication he'd crafted. Lilith nodded and left the room.
Of course, she went straight downstairs and out the front doors.
Lily saw her brother Aidan pushing an old-style lawn mower through the grass. She wondered how sharp its rusted blades were. "Hello Aidan!" She waved. He paused, looking blankly at her, then raised his hand as he'd been taught. He then resumed his task and forgot about her.
She walked through the grass he'd already cut and to the fence. Plants grew so thick and huge around here. It was like the swamp was wrapping ivy-green arms around her, constricting her, smothering her. Like her brother Baron. But he did love her, she knew that, and he gave her so many pretty things. Still, it was only natural to be curious about the world beyond the estate. Lily knew she was thirteen or so, and she wondered if there were other children out there.
Then, there was someone out there. A man in black kneeling in the bog. He had a big stick that he leaned upon and his skin was bone-white. Another dead man like the others? No, his eyes...his eyes were alive and they were fixed on her.
He approached the fence. Lily pressed her face to the bars. "Hi."
"What are you doing in there?" The man in black asked. She saw now that his big stick had a big knife on it. Maybe he was cutting grass too. "I live here." She answered. His skin was like clay, wasn't it? So perfectly smooth, even when he frowned. And his eyes were big and black and shiny. Lily thought that maybe that was what beautiful really looked like. "What do you mean, you live here?" He was looking past her at Aidan. "That's my brother," she explained. "What's your name?"
"I don't have a name." He said matter-of-factly. "I'm Lily." She told him. "My brothers and sisters all live here. Daddy doesn't live here anymore. I don't remember him much anyway. I'm not allowed to go outside the gates. What's it like?"
"It's not a nice place." Kneeling to bring himself face-to-face with the girl, the man in black looked at Aidan again. "Do they try to hurt you?"
"No, they're not allowed." She glanced at her wrists and was flushed with shame. The man followed her eyes. "Why did you do that?"
"I don't know." Lily put her hands behind her back and stepped away. "I have to go." She ran into the manor.
Death studied the architecture of the house. If there was a human quality that he admired, it was imagination. For him, imagination had no purpose; his entire existence was laid out in black and white. But those idling in this life took wood and rock and metals and forged wonders merely from pictures in their minds. It didn't matter that they would one day depart the mortal coil, nor that their cathedrals and skyscrapers would one day be razed to the ground. Just to have created, that was enough.
The mowing afterdead had seen him. Death leapt into the trees with barely a whisper, back into the swamp, back to his white steed.
5.
To Have Created
"Did you go outside
this morning?" Confusion was a rare feeling for Lee. He usually kept everything in its place with little effort, especially Cheryl. But he remembered awakening from a drunken stupor at six A.M. and hearing the front door before blacking out again. Cheryl's guilty white countenance confirmed his suspicions. "Where were you?"
She only shook her head in response. Her clothes were filthy. Lee could tolerate her plump figure when she at least looked clean; he'd send her to the rooftop today to do laundry. Lee's head ached so he plopped down in his recliner, narrowing his glare. Bitch had better not relax thinking he was just going to sit there and nurse his hangover. "You're lying." He said flatly. "I can't believe it but you are. Where the fuck could you have been that you'd even think of lying to me about it?" Lee tapped his index finger against his cheekbone. "Maybe you were with that guy in the next building. Maybe you went over there to suck his cock."
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