Carrion Virus (Book 1): Carrion City

by Duncan, M. W.

  There was every possibility that Dill, herself, was Assessment, too–Employee Assessment–the most hated and feared group in ZI.

  “Scan for the Wranglers,” Carl said. Time to get down to business. “We’ve got a menzie stuck head first in a sewer grate.”

  “Collared or…?”

  “Yep, pretty sure. Not popped from what I can tell. One Wrangler truck is enough.”

  Dill flipped down the visor and touched the corner of her eye. A laser bloomed from the small scanner tucked next to her eyelid, and she trained it on the code under WRAN. A blip came from the vicinity of her ear, and she touched her earlobe lightly with two fingertips. “This is FA 12382, and we are requesting one Wrangler truck. Location broadcast.”

  “Okay, Field Assessment, Wrangler truck on the way.” The automated voice was good, very close to human, but there was always a hitch when it switched. “Is this containment?”

  Dill glanced at Carl and without looking up from his clipboard, shook his head. “It’s already contained itself,” he said, muttering distractedly. “There’s nothing to panic over.”

  “No,” Dill answered the voice and removed her finger from her earlobe, ending the call. “What’s next? Do we go wait out near the one in the gutter?”

  “Christ, no,” Carl said. “We wait until the Wranglers–” Carl shuddered, “–get here.”

  “Are they really that bad?”

  Carl raised his eyebrows at her. “You haven’t seen the Wranglers yet? No? Well, they’re just, you know, different. Not as bad as the Cleaners, but you wouldn’t want to hang out with Wranglers on a regular basis.”

  “I’ve heard that about them.”

  “Okay, so, procedure, see here? This form? This is the first one filled out. Always. On site and in front of a homeowner if it’s regarding a defect or perceived defect in a system.”

  “Assess first, though, right?”

  “Yeah, well, shit, of course. You have to assess to be able to fill the damn thing out.”

  Dill nodded again, unperturbed, her eyes on the clipboard. Carl swallowed his impatience. It was his own fault. He wasn’t explaining things right, and also, she hadn’t been with him. How would she know?

  Okay, so he was a little rattled. There seemed to be more riding on her success because it impacted his.

  “Listen, Dill, I could tell from the guy’s tone when he called that it would be a bad idea to give him an audience. You’ll learn that. Next time, you’ll come with me, okay?”

  Dill nodded again. Carl couldn’t get a good read on her. She was self-contained enough to be Employee Assessment but seemed too young. She’d been scared to be in the SUV by herself, but that could be an indicator of anything. The only ones who weren’t skittish outside company walls were Wranglers, Cleaners, and of course, zombies.

  Gave you an idea where the Wrangler and Cleaners’ heads were at.

  “Once you have everything down on the clipboard,” Carl continued, “then you input it into the tablet.”

  “Why not just put it into the tablet in the first place?”

  Carl sighed, but it was a reasonable question for a young person. Most of them had probably never used pens, pencils, or paper. “It’s part of the service, part of the…what the hell is it called the, uh, the–? The mystique! Just like the khakis and the Oxfords. We’re going for old-fashioned. We’re going for reassurance.”

  “I wouldn’t be reassured by a clipboard,” Dill said.

  “No, I guess you wouldn’t,” Carl said, “but you’re not in your fifties. You don’t own a house or–” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Do you own a house?”

  She looked at him as if he was crazy. Her first real expression if you disregarded the fear earlier.

  “No, see?” Carl continued. “That’s what I mean. Our territory is almost entirely houses, homeowners, richies who can afford the big systems. See what I mean? They want to see a goddamned clipboard and some chop-chop. It makes them feel good. More secure.”

  Dill nodded and turned her eyes back to the clipboard. She was ready to learn. That was good, because she had a long way to–

  A gas engine roar made her jump. Carl couldn’t see the Wrangler truck from here, but he recognized it nonetheless. Wranglers had actually fought for and won the right to the old gas vehicles. That’s how crazy they were. It was as if they wanted to attract zombies. Crazy.

  “Okay, they’re here,” Carl said. “Sneak on up there.”

  Dill pressed the steering wheel at the top. The car hummed and rolled forward, slowly gathering momentum. She rounded the corner, and the Wrangler van came into view. Her eyes widened.

  “What the fu–?”

  Carl laughed. He’d been watching her face, waiting to see what happened once the Wranglers were in sight. “Something else, huh?”

  She glanced at him and then turned her stunned gaze back to the vehicle twenty-five feet down the road, turned sideways curb to curb. It was a big pickup truck, flat black, with the Zombie, Inc., logo on each door panel in red. The tires were easily four feet high with heavy, studded tread, and the body of the truck sat an additional eighteen inches over the tires. A cowcatcher grill, also flat black, covered the front, and a rack of bullhorns with zombie heads on each of the two points sat above it like something from a wild-west nightmare. A red cap on the back had the word ‘Wrangler’ in loopy writing made to look like rope.

  The engine roared, shaking the truck, and then the sound died. In the sudden silence, Dill took a breath to speak, but then the doors of the Wrangler truck opened. Two Wranglers tumbled out.

  The men were dressed as old-time bikers in heavy blue jeans and leather chaps and leather vests over bare skin. Their forearms were laced up in black leather, they wore studded collars around their necks, and the sun glared and sparked off the metal spikes. Steel-toed cycle boots with chains and do-rags of flat black emblazoned with red skulls completed the look.

  They ran, whooping, toward Carl and Dill.

  “They…they, uh…” Dill stuttered. The Wranglers looked like bandits, like pirates, hooligans, ruffians. “Are they coming to kill us?”

  Carl’s shoulders rose and dropped. “Man, you just never know,” he said, and then his door clunked open, and he pointed to the legs in the sewer grate, redirecting the Wranglers’ furious attention.

  They turned like flocking birds and their whoops increased in both volume and frequency when they saw the legs. One or two ‘yee-haws’ popped out of them like uncontrollable burps.

  “I’ll be back,” Carl said and began to close the door.

  “Wait!” Dill said, her voice edged with panic. “What about me?”

  “You’ll be okay. You have your crossbow, right? Keep it handy.”

  “Yeah, but what about, you know, learning the job?”

  “Do you see those two?” Carl asked and hooked a thumb back over his shoulder. The Wranglers had the errant zombie by the ankles and were pulling as they laughed, dragging it from the sewer. “Shit, Dill, you’re going to have plenty of on-the-job, okay? For now, just observe, okay?”

  Dill nodded and sat back in the seat. She scanned the rearview and big side mirrors. Always be aware of your surroundings. Alertness was the number one rule when you were outside the compound wall. It wasn’t written specifically anywhere in the training materials, but the stories of lives lost through sheer inattention were many and frightening. Even if at least half of the stories were more office lore cautionary tale than factual account.

  The Wranglers nodded to Carl and resumed their tugging. The zombie finally pulled free and one of the Wranglers stumbled back and landed hard on his ass. The standing Wrangler bugled a laugh as the grounded Wrangler cursed.

  “Haw! You idiot! Watch where yer own big damn feet is, idiot!”

  “Fuck you, Floyd! It wan’t my feet the problem! It was this ’un!”

  “Floyd, this old feller never got nowhere near them bloated boats you calls feet. Now get on ’em boats, and let’s get this
feller took care of.” The standing Wrangler turned and spit a thick stream of tobacco onto the road. He turned back and grinned broadly. “You idiot.”

  The grounded Wrangler cursed again and turned the zombie’s foot with a sharp, businesslike twist, snapping the ankle. The standing Wrangler crouched and twisted the zombie’s other leg in a similar fashion, snapping the other ankle, splintering the fibula with a crunch. Then the Wranglers stepped back.

  The zombie pushed, grunted, and gained his knees. His head dangled almost to the ground. The Wranglers crossed their arms over their burly chests and tilted their heads in observation. They were quiet, watchful. All pretense of idiocy and rambunctiousness seemed to have drained away clean.

  “The collar only half popped would be my guess.”

  “Yeah, mine too. Charges mighta wore out?”

  “Not supposed to, not on the new models. See that blue tag there? That collar ain’t but a month old.”

  “Shitfire, you’re right about that, Floyd. We’ll have to pluck that sucker offa that guy. Get the collar back to ZI so they can figure out why the poppers didn’t pop ’im.”

  “Well, that’s what we’re about, Floyd, so let’s get about it. Let’s wrangle this sucker!”

  The Wranglers turned to Carl. “Keep an eye on this one while we get the gear, would you, Abby? There’s a good girl.”

  Carl gave them the finger, and they broke up laughing and bashing each other on the shoulder as they trotted back to their truck.

  Wranglers were mystifying. They all called each other ‘Floyd’ and called everyone else–for reasons unknown–‘Abby’. They were a tight, secretive bunch, and Carl pitied the HR rep in charge of them. For years, the company had tried to move a Wrangler into management specifically for the HR job, but there were no takers amongst the Wranglers. The job was currently being handled by a young man who was rumored to be near suicidal because of it.

  The Wranglers came back, one carrying a long pole with a rope on the end. A dogcatcher, it was called in the old days. Carl remembered them well. Now there were no more dogs, or at least, not many. After the plague, dogs had been drawn to the rotting zombies, drawn by the smell. It had not been uncommon to see a dog chewing the leg of a shuffling zombie or trying to roll on the less ambulatory ones. But zombie meat was poison to animals.

  A lot of the ASPCA equipment had been bought up by Zombie, Inc., at pennies on the dollar. It translated well to zombie containment.

  The other Wrangler carried a thin baton and a long Taser. They approached the struggling zombie like animal trainers in a zoo for the insane.

  “We don’t need your help, Abby,” the Wrangler addressed Carl without looking at him. “Get back in your pussy-mobile, and wait for the report. This one’s gonna be easy!”

  “You said it, Floyd,” the other Wrangler said. “Half the head gone already? I like those odds!” He swung the pole in a circle over his head, and the loop hissed and snapped. “Half the head gone; half the job done! Haw!”

  “Catch hold on ’im and stop runnin’ yer mouth, Floyd. He’s gained his feet somehow.”

  The zombie stood swaying on the stubs of his ankles, feet pointing off in different directions, the twisted bones of his shin poking through the skin. His head dangled against his chest, the back of his neck having been blown off by the collar. Shards of bone entangled with ribbons of rotting skin hung around his shoulders like a macabre scarf. He moaned, and it was muffled in the old corduroy jacket he wore. A substance that looked like a mix of coffee grounds and drying blood clots trailed down his back. He swayed and shuffle-hopped toward the Wranglers, leaving one foot behind. A coffee-clot about the size of an eyeball fell to the pavement with a slucking sound.

  “Shit, sucker’s got a little life in ’im yet, I reckon.”

  “Just get ’im looped up, Floyd, for fuck’s sake, quit yer dickin’!”

  “I got ’im, I got ’im, quit yer cry babyin’, ya’ loose stool.” He swung the loop of rope and twirled it down over the zombie’s dangling head, but the zombie lurched to the left, and the rope skidded down his side.

  “Aw, fucker! Hold still, ya’ oily cunt rag!” He raised the loop again–the pole was long and unwieldy–and this time, the zombie feinted backward, and the loop tripped uselessly down his front. Then the zombie lurched forward, swinging his arms and groaning as his head rocked side to side on his chest.

  “Jesus! Quit fucking around, and LOOP that thing!” Carl said as he fumbled at his belt for his pistol.

  “Shut up, Abby, Floyd’s got ’im! Go sit in your pussy-wagon if you can’t–”

  The zombie tumbled, one of its reaching hands tangling in the Wrangler’s vest. The Wrangler roared like a surprised lion and jumped back as the other Wrangler stepped in with the Taser. “Floyd! Be careful! Sucker almost got you!” He jabbed the Taser into the zombie’s arm.

  The zombie’s arm jerked up and back, flinging wildly. The Wrangler pushed closer and jammed the Taser into the open cavity at the zombie’s neck. Blue fire zizzed and flashed, and a stink of hot, rotted flesh combined with ozone made Carl gag.

  “Loop ’im, Floyd! Loop the fucker!”

  “Can’t! The head’s too far over! Loop won’t catch! Fuck!”

  The zombie lunged again, the Wranglers jumped back in perfect synchronicity, and then a black bolt appeared in the zombie’s head as if by magic.

  It collapsed forward over itself and crumbled onto the pavement.

  Carl stopped fumbling for his pistol and stared open-mouthed. The Wranglers looked at each other, frozen, and then turned slowly to look behind them.

  Dill stood ten feet away with her crossbow at shoulder level.

  The Wranglers blinked at Dill, then blinked at Carl, and then turned their attention back to Dill.

  “Thanks, Abby,” the first Wrangler said, “but we’re supposed to bring them back kickin’.”

  Dill’s face, already very white, became whiter still. “Oh,” she said and lowered her shaking bow. Her shoulders fell in dejection. “Well…fuck.”

  The Wranglers blinked at her again and then burst out laughing. “Don’t you worry about it, Abby! Haw haw! Yer a good little Abby!”

  “Better a dead deadie than a dead Wrangler! Haw!”

  They clapped her on the shoulders, nearly flattening her, but Dill managed a grin. They hawed harder and commenced to slapping her on the back. She nearly went to her knees.

  “Yer a good one, Abby! Yer a good assessment man!”

  “You call us anytime, Abby! We’re your wranglers!”

  “Thanks–guys, thanks–oof, thanks, I–” She stepped away from their good-natured pounding. They continued to grin at her. “My name’s Dill, though.”

  “Aw! Right you are, Abby!” the first Wrangler said and caught her up in a bear hug that took her breath away. “Grrr…yer a good man!”

  “Jesus,” Dill said, her voice a squeezed squeak, “put me down!”

  The Wrangler dropped her all at once, and her teeth clicked together when her feet hit the pavement. The Wranglers leaned in, and once again, all traces of buffoonery had dropped from their features. Dell gazed into two pairs of brown eyes as warm and intense as any pit bull pup’s had ever been. The first Wrangler said, “We mean it; anything you need–”

  “–you call us first, Abby,” the second Wrangler finished.

  *

  Dill and Carl watched from the SUV as the Wranglers sawed away at the zombie’s neck in order to retrieve the unpopped collar. They laughed and yelled and occasionally gave the Assessment SUV either the finger or a thumbs-up and then broke up again, seemingly unaffected by their brush with death and unconcerned with the charges on the collar that hadn’t fired. Of course, many Wranglers were missing fingers. It seemed a mark of honor among them.

  “Weird. They’re so weird!” Dill said and shook her head. Her voice was still shaky, and her face very white. Her wide eyes prismed with carefully unshed tears.

  “You made a good impression, th
ough,” Carl said. His tone was halfway between admiration and irritation. “You seem to know how to handle yourself, especially considering you’ve just started. Most people aren’t quite as confident their first time out.”

  Dill sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not EA, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  Carl glanced at her and away. “If you say so,” he said and shrugged.

  She turned to him. “I mean it. I’m not Employee Assessment. I promise I’m not.”

  Carl nodded, seemingly disinterested, and watched the Wranglers.

  “I’m not, Carl, and anyway, it’s company policy that I have to say I am if someone asks.”

  Carl snorted. “Who told you that?”

  “I don’t know, I mean, it’s just something people say. It’s just known.”

  “Dill, think about it–how could that possibly be a policy? How could they possibly enforce it?” He shook his head. “That’s why I like being on the outside. Too much yapping and information cannibalism in the office.”

  The Wranglers had the zombie head removed, and the collar was in the truck. Now they stood at the sewer grate, where gore was flung across the road and sidewalk in wide arcs. They moved methodically, back to back, blinking and turning in quarter turns.

  “What are they doing? Why are they blinking like that?” Dill asked.

  “They’re recording the scene. Wranglers have camera implants along with the scanner implants.”

  “Jeez,” Dill breathed, “that’s got to be expensive!” Her fingers went unconsciously to the call code scanner embedded near her eyelid, but she didn’t touch it. It was smaller than half a grain of rice and activated by pressing. The laser scanned a series of squares and connected you to your party via the tiny phone implanted near your ear. The scanners and implant procedure weren’t that expensive; it was the plans that really got you. Luckily, when she’d joined ZI, they took over her plan and deducted personal calls from her pay.