by James, Guy
15
The world was a sequence of zeroes and ones, hots and colds, stops and gos, blacks and whites with no shades of grey in between.
Jack’s coopted body stumbled onward. The light was green, so he went, and the campsite receded behind him as the woods took him in.
A yellow buckeye drew nearer until he was slumped against its trunk. The green light in his head had taken ill and was now growing cold, turning from a one to a zero. The tree’s branches had just enough leaves left on them to hide Jack from view.
Rain had drenched the boy’s body and soaked into his pants pocket, where the crocodile snout still bit at him, though now the flesh it was seeking to rip away and swallow was dead and cooling.
After the ritual of giving was complete, Brother Mardu had taken the restraints off Jack and given him a good kick in the seat of the pants, launching him out of the Order’s camp before sealing the netting again.
Jack had staggered away, and his throttle had been dialed down steadily until he’d gotten here, to the yellow buckeye that was dripping with rain. There’d been a noise—thunder, although the zombie gunk between Jack’s ears didn’t register it as such but only read it as potential prey—and he’d been drawn toward it, but now there were no more prominent noises, just the rain’s unrelenting pound.
Other than the body, there was nothing left in him of the New Crozet Jack. He didn’t know himself, wouldn’t recognize anyone, not even Sasha, and there were no thoughts, just impulses. Move or don’t move. Pursue or wait. Right now, he would wait.
Pursuit would come later, when the signal was given. The prey always came, sooner or later. That was how the world worked, and according to the virus that had taken him, that was the only way it could.
16
In the distance, Alan spotted the splintered wood of beams peeking through a strangling mass of creeping vines and turning foliage. It was the base of an elevated safety platform. He began to hurry toward it, adjusting his course slightly, and moving with as much stealth as he could muster while stumbling over the dense undergrowth.
There were safety platforms like this one throughout the forest and around the town that were designed to be temporary refuges from active zombies. After climbing a ladder to a tall platform, there the humans could wait out the zombies until they slipped back into dormancy, which, depending on the circumstances, could take days or even weeks. Most platforms had a roof and a stock of essential supplies, and some had walls in addition to roofs, offering a good measure of protection from the elements.
One of Senna and Alan’s jobs on their trips outside the perimeter had been to restock the safety platforms. This had become unnecessary four years earlier, as the platforms slipped into disuse and the marauders who’d once looted them found other distractions—some of the becoming-a-zombie sort, and some with larger gangs such as the Fleshers or the Order, either as their new members or as their food, new meat in either case, figurative in the former, and painfully literal in the latter.
The zombies were getting closer to Alan, and soon they’d break. If he could reach the top of the platform before that happened, the increased distance between him and them might put them off the scent. If they broke before he reached the platform, or when he was on it, then he’d be trapped for God only knows how long, assuming he could climb up before they got him.
He was running out of options, and even though he knew he didn’t have time to wait it out on top, he’d be no use whatsoever to Senna or the others if he let the zombies catch him on the ground. It was climb up or run for it, and he knew he’d only make more noise if he ran, and then the virus would take him for sure.
When he got to the base of the platform he slipped between its four beams, which were overgrown with scraggly shrubs whose branches scraped at him as he moved past. He stepped square in the middle, flattening a small patch of chanterelles, and looked up at the underside of the tower.
Panting, he gripped the ladder and began to pull himself upward as the sound of movement behind him grew louder. He heaved himself off the ground, and a large splinter of wood fingered his bandage, which ripped, then the two wooden fangs at the end of the splinter bit him a good one and stuck. He went on, feeling the pain, but not caring.
A few more feet and the splinter would fall off, taking with it a smear of Alan’s blood, but he had plenty of that left over for the time being, bullets and fanged slivers notwithstanding.
He pulled harder, climbing several rungs, then continued to ascend the ladder as he looked over his shoulder at the ground beneath him. There, he saw exactly what he’d feared.
The two zombie squirrels that were following him—had been almost ambling after him—were no longer semi-dormant. Behind them, the pony that had only one hoof, and no eyes or tongue to speak of, raised its rotten head upward and bounded up on its hind legs before dropping back down on all fours.
In the moment when it had been nearest to vertical, it had directed its vacant, eyeless stare upward, and it was the glower of the virus that had found Alan, and it declared through its hoofed messenger that it would have him, finally, stubborn man and all of his miserable humanity be damned.
17
Alan climbed the rest of the way up the ladder and onto the platform, the structure shaking appreciably in the wind. Livid with self-hatred, he wanted to scream for allowing this to happen, for letting himself be trapped.
But he didn’t, because screaming would only make it worse. It would incense the zombies further, and draw more to him.
After getting his bearings and getting himself under control not very much at all, he sat down. He knew where he was relative to New Crozet—about three quarters of a mile from the outer gate. In the distance he’d covered, there’d been no sign of the Tackers.
He was determined to catch up with them…somehow.
And when he did he was going to do more than just put the fear of God in their hearts. Said hearts were coming the fuck out of their chests.
Judging from how only the one zombie had shown up at the gate the other night when he was out with Senna and Rosemary, there might be a campsite nearby, which had drawn the zombies to it and away from New Crozet.
But perhaps the Tack Truck itself was the extent of the Tackers’ lot, and it had simply arrived in advance of the market. If he couldn’t find them, or if he couldn’t catch up to them, then he would follow their trail until the zombies took him.
The platform was twenty feet tall, and the relative lack of foliage at this time of year allowed Alan to see some way in the direction the truck had gone. The view was disheartening, offering no sign of the truck or a campsite.
Tree branches swayed noisily around him, as if to say, ‘I told you so.’
The platform’s shaking grew more violent, like a dial on an amplifier being turned up slowly, and Alan thought of what would happen if one of the beams succumbed to the storm. He saw himself falling and breaking his legs and an arm, or if he was lucky, his back. At least then he wouldn’t feel it when they tore him apart.
It could be a slow turn, a painfully slow one. If he took a long time to become one of them, he might suffer for quite a while as they tore at him with their teeth, claws, and broken bony protrusions, which were the virus’s specialty. If he didn’t break his back, or broke it so that he only lost the use of the lower half of his body, he could try to run or crawl away on his hands and knees while they worked to convince him to join their cause.
There was no point in fighting or trying to escape after they bit him, but he knew that he’d do it anyway. It was hardwired into him, as it was into Senna, and most of those who were still alive so many years after the outbreak.
He looked down the ladder hole and saw that some cardinals had joined the flesh-seeking party, and good for them. They were the good ol’ Virginia state birds, after all. He’d always loved the cardinals, and now there were two tattered and very dirty red balls, the current excuse for the same, flitting about at the base of the tower,
what luck.
They were Virginia cardinals, alright, what little was left of them, and he wondered at the red still in their coats.
Small miracles, right? Thank God in heaven for that. Or was it the virus that was seated in heaven now? Never mind, that was for Brother Mardu to worry about.
Perhaps these birds had been dormant longer than most, and had suffered the least damage by virtue of their isolation. It could be very quiet indeed in the sticks of the Virgin Queen State.
Alan craned his neck for a better view and found that if he watched long enough and squinted in just the right way, and, most importantly, squeezed all thought from his mind, it almost looked like the animals, or rather the tattered and broken rag dolls that were vaguely animal-shaped, were playing.
The game was capture the flag—he was the flag—and the opposite team had encountered an obstacle that it couldn’t surmount, at least not yet, but they were working at it in their dogged way.
What kind of flag was he, and how would he flap on his way down? How would his fabric sprawl out on the ground, and would it still ripple, and, if so, for how long?
Hadn’t the world seen enough of him already? Wasn’t it sick of him by now?
Why not just end it quickly?
No, the more he looked down, the more certain he was that he wouldn’t die on impact if he fell. That was too much to wish for, and anyway, he deserved the pain. He’d earned it.
It would be his punishment for failing to realize what was happening sooner. If he hadn’t been stumbling around the market like some damned fool, maybe he could’ve saved them…saved all of them, not just Senna, but the children too. He loved them all, even though the only loss he could feel right now was the loss of...her.
If he did fall, he’d drag himself with what parts of his body still worked in the direction the truck had gone, toward the only thing in the world he cared about, until he could drag no farther.
18
The wind tore through the tree tops, shaking free withering leaves from molting branches. A gust carried a beautiful assortment of leaves to Alan, littering the floor of the platform and lending it a colorful but painfully thin mat.
The tops of the trees around him were shaking in erratic spurts of violence, as if they were trying to refrain from expressing the storm’s temper but could find no position to take that would allow the currents of air to flow through and around them without getting all riled up. The patches of forceful trembling were like warnings, each bringing with it a new layer of leafy mat for the platform, while also blowing out much of the previous collection.
Alan grasped the underside of the ladder hole with both hands, bracing himself against the blustering gales. Assuming that steeled position, which he knew to be effective from experience, afforded him no measure of ease. Instead, his breathing only grew more ragged.
He was cold, enraged, panicked, and desperate to get back on the trail. He felt as if the world was trying to shake him from his mission, and in a way it was. The zombies were attacking from below, the wind from the flank, and the storm from above. And the fucking cannibals, they’d come with their Trojan horse and stolen his very life.
Was all of this some kind of warning? Was he being told to turn back, to give up on her? On them? On himself and his beliefs?
I won’t be shaken, he thought. I’m going to find her. No matter what I’m going to find her.
He glanced at the roof over his head, held there by toothpick-like projections from the platform floor. The whole structure might as well have been pasted together by children with their Elmer’s Glue, considering how rare it was to see a platform with its roof still attached. Had they even used Elmer’s Glue?
What the fuck had they been thinking? Probably that no one would live long enough for any of it to matter, that’s what, and the longer they stayed out there doing a right job of it, the less likely they were ever to return to wherever it was they’d come from.
Joke’s on them, Alan thought bitterly.
He knew that most of them, in fact, hadn’t returned. They should have at least finished their jobs, and taken some pride in doing them well.
He’d never thought he’d get off the rec-crew alive, either, but that hadn’t stopped him from putting his all into the thankless, and frankly pointless task that he’d been allotted by the fading U.S. government. He’d left eventually, that was true, but he’d done his time.
He thought on this for a moment. Had he really put in enough though?
Who the fuck are you to judge, Alan? he admonished himself. For all you know they didn’t even have glue to work with, much less power tools or nails long enough or strong enough or any at all for that matter.
The roof creaked mightily on its supports, straining against the hurried and slipshod nail work that had held it in place for years, but had never had to contend with a storm like this. Well now it did have to, and who knew how many more storms it would withstand, assuming it made it through this one?
An image of Russ Trippett’s face entered Alan’s mind like an air bubble rising to the surface of a stagnating pond, except the bubble didn’t pop when it found its way to the top, but only swam on top of the water, back and forth, back and forth, as if it intended to bob there forever.
Usually he winced when he remembered Russ, but not this time. There were too many other things on his mind for that, to be precise, mostly Senna. The children were there too, and more clearly than they’d been when he’d stormed out of New Crozet to rescue the woman he loved, but they continued to float at the outskirts of his goal, ancillary things that were outside the lines.
He knew that objectively, they were more important than she was. They mattered more to the survival of the human race, which, if he had to admit it, and at the moment he did, was as unlikely as…as…he couldn’t think of anything to compare it to right now, but it sufficed to call it by its name: an improbability, and a grave one, which by the looks of it, was becoming...
The meanderings of his addled mind were cut short by a tearing sound that announced itself above the nonstop drum solo of rain, which was gaining strength beat by beat by beat. It was the world’s snare drum, but what was the rallying cry? Or was it a demoralizing tactic, or a curfew, or a parley? No, it certainly wasn’t a parley.
Suddenly, the unseen conductor gave his cue and the roof was wrenched free of its supports, taking an impressive handful of bent nails with it. Sheets of rain covered Alan, who was already drenched from his trek to the platform. As the entire structure shook with vicious force, he hung on.
19
The roof didn’t go far. The wind, as it turned out, had bitten off a smidge more than it could chew. Well, more than a smidge if we’re being honest about it, and after carrying the top of the safety platform past a cluster of trees only yards from Alan’s perch, dropped the roof from its maw.
Thank you very much, thought the displeased roof, being that it had wanted to move toward the drummer boy of rain, the eye of the storm, and the wind had taken it in quite the opposite direction, thank you very much for nothing. It dropped to the forest floor in a rigmarole of soaked and splintering wood.
It had taken with it one of the wind’s looser teeth, and that would have to be triumph enough for today. Framed by the noises of the war that the sky was currently waging against everything beneath it, the crash was insignificant, and managed to distract the zombies who were nipping at Alan’s heels—only figuratively, because they were still confined to the ground under the platform—for only a moment. They were ingeniously designed things, more keyed in to the sounds of the living than those made by inanimate objects.
The storm center was drawing closer on its alternating pitter-patter and pour feet.
Closer it came, and stronger it flowed out of the air, hurtling itself with ever increasing speed and determination at all that was below it. It saw Alan, as the rain sees all that is worth covering, and its patience flagged.
At the water’s beck and call, the win
d turned on its heels and circled about once more, pushing the clouds toward the platform and the New Crozet citizen who was trapped there for the time being, and, perhaps, he’d be there forever, after being struck by lightning or having a heart attack or doing himself in with his own gun. But of course that wouldn’t be the case, because the platform wouldn’t stand for all of time.
It would come apart under its own weight sooner or later, and Alan’s corpse would settle to the ground in a jarring rattle of bones, and there he would remain, blanketed by rain and taken back by the elements until, after a great many years, there would be no evidence that he’d existed in the first place. Now that was something to look forward to.
To say the least, Alan wasn’t feeling optimistic at the moment, although the storm itself was a blessing because it allowed for thunder and lightning, which could create enough noise to draw the zombies away and give Alan time to climb down and escape. He’d seen lightning earlier, when in pursuit of the Tack Truck, or at least he thought he had, so where was it now? Why wasn’t there more?
As if it had heard his thoughts, the sky allowed one gangly lightning bolt to cross it, lighting up the night, and affording Alan a glimpse of the clouds’ breadth. His mouth fell open slightly as he took in the sight framed in the electricity’s afterglow. This was going to be a real rager of a storm, more so than it already was. A real motherfucking doozy.
This wasn’t his first platform pony ride, not by a long shot, but in a storm like this…hell, he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen the approach of a storm like this. As for pony rides, he’d never actually ridden a real pony, although he’d been on the occasional horse tour or three, and he hadn’t much liked the feeling of sitting on a horse. But that was then, before the outbreak, and he’d literally jump at the chance to ride a horse or a pony now, so long as the equine friend kind enough to lend its back was alive and not a rotten string-puppet of the virus, bone shards poking out in all directions to make mounting said beast an exercise in self-flagellation.
