by James, Guy
All to no avail. All of those things, everything, it was all just useless writhing. All of it for nothing.
He looked at the zombie, which he’d changed with his own hands, and he didn’t recognize his own work. It was trapped there, held in place by three steel bands. One was wound around its waist, just above the navel, another around its chest an inch over where the nipples had been and where now only torn and bedraggled rot was left. The last one kept the shoulders in place.
Each strip of metal was fixed by a padlock to a steel pallet that stood vertically behind the zombie. The pallet was movable, and could be used like a stretcher to carry its bonded load from place to place.
Back in the good ol’ days, he’d make them move it into the fresh air for outdoor worship, and take it into the other trucks when a brother or sister was bedridden and required a blessing from one of the virus’s children. But they didn’t take it out of this truck, the feast and worship truck, anymore.
The air was squealing out of Mardu’s balloon, hooking into his backbone in its sour rush and taking that along for the ride.
Years earlier, there’d been shackles, around arms and legs and the diminishing stubs of the same. But the Embodiment had been whittled down into its current shape, which required much less to keep it safely in place. It had to be cut down, bit by bit, for the giving rituals.
He looked at them. Some really had worshiped the virus, and a few still did. Others had just wanted safety in numbers, and now that the numbers were so small, well, there wasn’t a whole lot of safety left. Others had just wanted access to Mardu’s resources, of which few were remaining.
The town they’d set up and run had collapsed under its own weight. But that was the right outcome, because they were natural travelers, and never should have put down roots in the first place.
Some had come to him just for meat. And that was okay too, because all of them would serve the virus, and they had, for a time.
Two—one a man, Brother Donnie, and one a woman, Sister Jane—had wanted Mardu himself, to be with him, in every way, ’til death, whether by virus or otherwise, did them part. Death would have parted them, had they ever been with Mardu in the first place, but he’d rebuffed all their advances, and Sister Jane had been killed, eviscerated and eventually eaten, if we’re keeping score, in a skirmish with a rival gang over gas and water, and Brother Donnie had killed himself when he couldn’t convince the love of his life to join him in post-apocalyptic nuptial bliss.
He’d slit his own throat and sealed his final love letter to Mardu with the spurting blood of his jugular. Brother Mardu had called it ‘touching,’ forcing the word out of a mouth with sneering lips painted on it, when he’d learned of Donnie’s exit stage left.
Would the virus have loved Mardu more if he’d entertained the wannabe lovers? Maybe, but it was too late to fix that now.
They’d once been a robust one hundred and seventeen. Now they were only twenty-six: twenty-one men and five women. He’d been a real success in the business of fear once, trading the shit out of it, as it were. And now what?
Now, he knew, was his chance to keep it all from slipping away, like that fish that swims up to you and looks at you, staring dumbly, while you hold the point of your spear suspended over it, ready to strike. He had to impale it before it swam away. There could be no hesitation, no more hesitation.
He didn’t know if the virus would ever return and take up guiding him again, and how could he know? He was going to do the only thing he could, and that was keep on trucking.
47
“Brothers and sisters,” he said, like a king addressing those privileged enough to hold court with him, “my dear brothers and sisters. Equilibrium Day is closer than ever.” His tone was almost regal, and he noted the not-quite nobility, because years earlier the tone he was now going for was there and easy. Now everything was a challenge. At least his voice wasn’t breaking. “Equilibrium Day may even come this year.”
Not a small number of said dear brothers and sisters tried to hide eye rolls. Brother Mardu noted the minute changes in some of the faces gazing at him.
They were like figures made of stone and worn by the rain and grit carried in the wind, changing from day to day, from sermon to sermon, becoming less like what they were when they’d joined him, more unrecognizable.
Frayed wires of nerves were wrapping themselves around his bones and trying to pull him down through the floor. The imagined sensation of his flesh uncoiling around his skeleton as it was torn out of the bottom of the truck and into the earth was making him sway.
He searched for and found the faces of Acrisius and Saul, and in their eyes he found some comfort. It was a measure of encouragement, and, grateful for that, for them, he went on.
“It’s true,” he said. “Soon the virus will be done with its work here and it’ll leave. It might not be within our lifetimes, but it’ll be soon in terms of how the virus sees time.”
More suppressed eye rolls.
Fuck you, he thought, and he almost screamed it.
A nod from Acrisius and a semi-paralyzed half-smile.
A slight warmth in Mardu’s belly at that.
A real smile on Saul’s perfect face.
Now there came a pulse of courage in Mardu, and he found a springboard in his throat from which to launch more rhetoric. He straightened, looking stronger, and feeling it too.
“We’ve been led well by it, but times are changing. And now we have to make some changes. As we’ve done so many times before, we’ll adapt and we’ll go on, because it is the virus’s will that we do. We serve the virus, and so long as we do, we are safe.”
A cough, guttural and hacking.
“You have to realize, and I know that each one of you does, just how fortunate we are. Look around you. Look at each other. We are the beasts of prey. We sit at the top of the food chain…just below the virus. We own the world.”
Well, at least what’s left of it, he thought, but this wasn’t a time to mince words. His voice was deepening to a bellow. There it was, some of the mojo madness slinking back. I’ll take you in my prodigal son, he thought. Oh yes I will.
“This is our world.”
The Embodiment’s torso beat against the restraints that were holding it. Then one more time. And again. The drum solo had commenced.
Now he was the one swallowing the urge to roll his eyes. Fucking Embodiment, please. A gang of idiots dancing around a mutilated zombie is what he thought they were at times—these, these people who were barely listening to him now.
They’d been his but they were changing. They weren’t just blindly following anymore. They were thinking, they wanted more meat, they wanted for more power.
Animals, he thought, reaching for something that wasn’t theirs to take, reaching for what was his. Still, he would go on until they were back in his hand and he was squeezing them, and, when it came to the traitors, mashing them into a paste on his palm.
“We own this world now, and the people in the settlements, they’re for us to take and do with as we like. They are the meat on our plates, and it has been far too long that we’ve gone without. Meat.” His tone became almost sultry. “Meat, on our plates.” He was actually beginning to salivate, and the crowd of his followers, now paying attention, was beginning to feel it too.
A throaty moan from the Embodiment, as if in counterpoint.
Brother Mardu almost lashed out, almost took out his knife and stabbed the thing to death, or whatever passed for it in the zombie world, but he contained himself, for what would he be if he wasn’t master of his own urges?
He recited the plan again, taking great pains to connect with the brothers and sisters sitting on the gnarled and moldy carpet in the dying, converted truck, to inspire in them anything at all, but when it came to the details their eyes barely met his, and there were groans of pain and perhaps disapproval that blew through them like an acrid breeze while he spoke. These were hungry times, and they, apparently, were not opt
imists today.
Now deflating again, an occasional rasp began to take his words from him as he spoke, and that didn’t help the whole mojo thing. Even his silken voice, which had always been his bread and butter on the streets, was beginning to desert him now, and the scratch that filled in every so often was like a needle putting a scar into a vinyl record.
After he’d said his piece, he turned his back on his brotherhood and the malignant fetus of betrayal in it and watched the Embodiment—no, the fucking cut up zombie—writhe. The virus had once told him that these dances were magnificent, inimitable performances by a perfect being.
She’d used those words in days past to clear his mind and make his expression a lesson in tranquility. But that was before. He’d been in control then, his power untouchable.
Today, the damned thing wasn’t magnificent. It was another deceit. It was the virus laughing in his face, punishing him, but for what? They’d hit snags, that was all, but he’d give again, he would…he promised.
His expression, far from untroubled today, was a rough sketch of stress, all creases and running sweat and jawbones poised to explode outward in their grinding. The limbless zombie kept on dancing—popping and locking with those missing appendages like it was still going out of style—blind to Mardu’s suffering.
48
Senna was thinking of Alan. They were spending the evening apart.
Well, relatively so—he was in the kitchen and she was in bed. She turned over, trying her left side again. The springs were wearing down, and the mattress was getting a little too soft. That, and she was always restless when he wasn’t there with her.
She could hear his footfalls as he paced up and down the length of the kitchen, could feel the vibrations moving through the floor and finding the legs of the bed. The subtle reverberations were helping to reassure her.
It wasn’t as good as having him there lying next to her, but it was a reminder that he was close by, moving in the world, alive and well. There was a warmth in that feeling.
It was rare for them to go to bed separately, and Senna didn’t like it one bit, hard as it was for her to fall asleep without him there. But she knew that she had to give him his space on the nights before market. She had her rituals, too, after all.
For one thing, she preferred to do most of her farm work alone. The work gave her a feeling of peace, and though she could have used the help—anyone’s at all—her experience working the farm with others made her stop the practice. She wanted things done her own way, and quietly. Some parts of nature were just better enjoyed alone.
She also had an odd habit of watching the sunrise. That was why she so often got up before Alan, leaving him to slumber on by himself. She loved the sunrise, and she loved being alone when the sun did rise. It gave her the feeling of being offered a fresh start, to do things over and to draw her life across a clean slate. There couldn’t be such a thing the way the world was now, and she’d never want a slate that was completely clean—every slate in her mind included a stick figure rendition of Mr. Alan Rice.
And he had to watch his videos before each market day. She still wasn’t sure why. It was as though he was preparing himself for something, or torturing himself for not having been better on the crews, for not being able to save more of those who’d served with them.
It won’t bring them back, she thought. Nothing will. You have to focus on what you have now, on what we have now.
She closed her eyes and imagined that he was hugging her, then gently rubbing her back, and then finally covering her back with kisses. Her body flooded with relaxation and contentment, but it wasn’t as good as when he was really there, doing those things to her. If he were there, he could clear the restlessness from her with the touch of his hand.
Frustrated and wanting the comfort of Alan’s real presence, Senna opened her eyes and sat up in bed.
She sometimes wished she could be without emotion, bereft of feeling, and free. Now was one of those moments.
If she could be like that, then she wouldn’t miss him, and she wouldn’t find such pleasure in his company, such comfort, because she wouldn’t need any love or consolation, physical or otherwise, to be happy or to help ease the pain of what she’d seen before she met him, and of what she’d done.
49
Alan’s face was so close to the monitor that his nose was almost touching the patch of dead pixels just to the left of center on the prehistoric HP Pavilion laptop. The playfully flickering pixels—the ones that weren’t dead—tried to push him away, but he didn’t give up his position. In some things, as it turned out, he could be just as stubborn as his better half.
Senna had left a candle burning on the kitchen table for him. He wasn’t sure why she did it, but it was her way, the touch she imparted to things, like a goodhearted footprint. The flame was beginning to gutter, and was casting an unsteady glimmer on the plate of crumbs sitting beside it, the remains of a slice of apple crisp with a side of canned peaches that Senna had left out for him.
It was a bit too fancy for a regular night, he thought, but of course there was no way he could know that this night was far from normal.
At first he hadn’t wanted to eat it without her, but she’d insisted, and she could be very persuasive. She’d wanted him to enjoy it tonight, and she hadn’t been that hungry anyway. ‘You’re the one staying up,’ she’d said, and, according to her, he was always wasting away, and she had no problem keeping meat on her bones.
So he’d given in, and not unhappily either, and enjoyed every last morsel. Now he licked the plate clean of the crumbs and shallow smears of peach preserves. He’d been uncomfortable about wasting food before the outbreak, and now it was entirely out of the question.
Their two peach trees had given a lot of fruit this year, and they’d eaten and shared as many as they could, while canning the ones they couldn’t keep up with. He loved eating the things she made, and now that he was done with the snack she’d made for him, he missed her even though she was just in the other room, and he would’ve gone to her and sidled up next to her if it weren’t for not wanting to wake her, and, of course, his sick need to watch the damn videos again.
When they’d first moved into New Crozet, the video-watching had started as a way to keep training himself to look for the signs, even though his eyesight wasn’t good enough, and, in any event, he could never become a spotter now.
Well, that’s how it had started, anyway. He’d done it for a year or so, and then it had just stuck, and remained stuck even after it became clear they wouldn’t be venturing out much anymore, if at all, and his spotting abilities were a lost cause.
Now, he probably did it out of inertia, or to remind himself of what was out there, or maybe for no reason at all. The older you got, the more stubbornly your habits kept you driving on the same track, in the same piece of shit, used-up lap car, sweating into the same seat, which was saltier and more vinegary with each curve. Tangy seat cushions, there ain’t much better ’an that.
50
Spotters had to have perfect eyesight, quick reflexes, and, above all else, talent. It was a gift that Alan hadn’t been able to find in himself, though not for lack of trying. But talent wasn’t something you could find in yourself, now was it?
It was one of those things that if you had it, you’d know, because it would make you know. And spotters weren’t needed now, anyway. If the perimeter broke down or if the town had to be moved for some reason, they’d become extremely important, but at this point, that all seemed unlikely, and with each passing day, more so.
Still, he watched the videos before each market. It used to be that he’d watch all six of them, and then, over time, he’d watch fewer and fewer. Last time he’d watched three, and the time before that, two.
Today, he wouldn’t get through more than one and an untidy sliver of a second. That was okay, he’d seen them all a hundred times, and, at any rate—in this case, free, except for his time—they were all pretty much the same.
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Senna didn’t prod him about the habit, and he was glad of that. She understood him, and, when it came to this, understood that he needed this time to himself, to go through the ritual, for whatever reason, even if there wasn’t a clear one, or any at all.
Maybe he did it because focusing on the screen gave him hope, misguided though it was, that he’d see some kind of pattern and come to a better understanding of what had happened to the world. Maybe that would let him do more for the town, and then all these late night sessions would finally be worth it. He wasn’t a fighter, and he knew that, though he’d had his stint on the rec-crews, for what that was worth. What he really was deep down and at heart, was a thinker. His core competency was in finding solutions, and he felt like he hadn’t really done that since the outbreak. Maybe he no longer could.
He paused the first video and got up from his seat at the kitchen table. The chair let go a croak of obvious relief, as if to say, ‘I give up. Please, no more.’
“Yeah, yeah,” Alan muttered softly, and went to the cupboard, where he took out a jar of oatmeal and a clean bowl. He unscrewed the jar’s lid—it wasn’t like ripping open a packet and drawing from it that soul-pleasing sound that paper made when it was torn, but it would have to do—and poured the oatmeal out into the bowl.
The jar didn’t have a label, because post-apocalyptic oatmeal makers weren’t so big on the whole branding thing. Quaker the flake maker was no more. The only other oatmeal brands he could remember were Nature’s Path and Arrowhead Mills: also gone.
The other, other brands, whatever they were, weren’t around either. Alan thought on this for a moment. There probably was some name brand oatmeal somewhere. There must have still been something left of shelf stable—or, in the case of the Twinkie, indestructible—foods from before the outbreak. The Twinkie, he decided, would live forever in the minds of the survivors, however long that was.
