Land of the Dead

by Robert Swartwood

  And despite Norman telling him he had nothing to worry about, that Kyle was a good boy, the simple truth was this: if his son turned, Conrad would have no choice.

  He’d have to kill him.

  2

  By the time he left Hunter Headquarters it was nine o’clock in the morning. His usual routine when he headed home was to first stop and pick up a bouquet of flowers, then weave his way through the city streets of Olympus, drive over the bridge, merge onto the Shakespeare Expressway. But before he left the city he noticed he was low on fuel and decided to stop at the first station he came to.

  He pulled up to one of the pumps and got out. He had just swiped his credit card when he heard someone yelling.

  “Hey, buddy, what the fuck?”

  A large man was heading his way. Behind him was a black pickup truck, a child about Kyle’s age in the passenger seat. The child’s lifeless eyes were wide as she watched.

  Conrad looked around the pumps. A convertible had pulled up to the pump directly opposite his, the driver having just gotten out. He was wearing a gray baseball cap and had his head down, and Conrad figured the large man was talking to him.

  But then the large man came right up to Conrad and said, “Well? What you gotta say for yourself?”

  The driver in the baseball cap walked past them, his head still down, headed toward the store.

  Conrad said, “Excuse me?”

  “I was here first,” the man said. A large finger suddenly appeared an inch from Conrad’s face. “You cut in front of me.”

  “I did?”

  The man nodded, jabbed the finger a half-inch closer. “You’re fucking right you did. Now what are you gonna do about it?”

  Conrad knew exactly what he could do about it. He could pull out his Hunter’s badge and hold that in front of the man’s face. It would be a shock to the man of course—the man seeing him as no threat, a guy dressed in street clothes, driving a sedan with a bouquet of flowers on the passenger seat. The man no doubt figuring Conrad was just another citizen out for a Saturday afternoon drive and not someone who hunted down and killed zombies.

  “Hey, asshole,” the man said. He wore mechanic’s clothes, some dried oil on the pants. “You deaf or something? You got five seconds to move your sorry ass or I’m gonna move it for you.”

  So yeah, he could pull out his badge, show it to the man, watch the man quickly back down, apologize, probably offer to pay for his gas. He could then make the man do anything he wanted—kneel down and lick his shoes, make a fool of himself in front of everyone watching them now—but truthfully that had never been Conrad’s style.

  “Five.”

  He had no problem letting this man go first. He had an idea he could take him even without his Hunter’s badge—he was about this man’s size, after all—but the sight of the girl watching them made him pause.

  “Four.”

  Still, he wanted to give it a couple extra seconds, so he glanced around the pumps again, at the people watching, at the convertible parked on the other side of the pump. It made him think of the driver he’d at first mistaken as this man’s sudden rival, and he glanced toward the store where he’d last seen the man headed.

  And watched just then as the very same driver jumped into a van and slammed the door shut.

  “Three.”

  Conrad glanced at the convertible, glanced back at the van now screeching away.

  “Two,” the man said, curling both of his hands into fists.

  Conrad said, “Get the fuck out of here.”

  The man cocked his head and frowned, clearly surprised Conrad had said anything to him at all. But Conrad barely noticed this as he turned away, opened his door, climbed in, and pulled his pistol out from the glove box. He was required to carry it but had never used it except at the shooting range, and now he got back out of the car—the large man holding up his hands, saying, “Don’t shoot, man, it was just a joke”—he turned back toward the fuel station exit, where right this moment the van was headed.

  He stepped around the car, got into a shooting position, aimed ... but the van was moving too fast, pulling onto the highway.

  He turned back to the man, said, “Get your daughter out of here.” He stepped back, shouted, “Everyone, get out of here, now!”

  Then he ran toward the highway, the gun in hand, and got only forty yards before the convertible exploded.

  The blast was small but enough to knock him to the ground. He tried his best to hold on to the pistol but it skittered away. His hands scraped the macadam and tore off flesh. He rolled over and looked back at the pumps, saw the billowing cloud of smoke, his own car on fire and tilted on its side, a woman crawling away from the flames and screaming and screaming, though he couldn’t hear her—he couldn’t hear anything except a high-pitched whine—and didn’t know why. By then he was getting back up onto his feet, turning around and staggering forward, picking up the pistol, continuing on.

  When he made it to the highway seconds later, the van was long gone. Something bumped the back of his legs and he spun around, his gun aimed. A car had screeched to a halt behind him, its driver honking, yelling at him to get out of the way. But Conrad still couldn’t hear anything and only watched as the man saw the gun and quickly held up his hands, his mouth now hanging open.

  Conrad lowered the pistol, dropped his shoulders. He turned back toward the fuel station. That massive cloud of black smoke was still billowing toward the sky, cars were still on fire, the woman was still screaming and crawling away from the flames. His ears were still ringing but he was starting to hear a few things, namely the traffic on the highway, a car alarm blaring.

  Flicking on the safety, he stuck the pistol in his pocket and hurried back toward the destruction.

  3

  58 Orchid Lane was a modest two-story just like every other house in Dead Oak Estates, one of just a number of countless suburbs surrounding Olympus. When he pulled into his driveway at two o’clock that afternoon, he noticed Thomas mowing his lawn across the street.

  He got out of the car—the new sedan he’d been given an hour ago, plastic still on the floor mats—and waved to Thomas. His old neighbor waved back, then held up a finger, turned off his mower, and started across the street. Conrad walked down the driveway to meet him.

  The first thing Thomas said was, “I saw the news.”

  “Yeah?”

  “A zombie attack last night, and just five hours ago a bombing.” Thomas shook his head. “Those living extremists just don’t know when to stop.”

  Around them dead birds sang, a dead dog barked, dead children cried out as they splashed around in a backyard swimming pool.

  Thomas noticed the bandages on Conrad’s hands and frowned. Then he glanced at the new car. He stared at it for a moment, his mouth starting to fall open, and Conrad quickly shook his head.

  “Don’t say it.”

  “But—”

  “Yes, I was there. And yes, they were most likely trying for me. But I don’t want Denise to know.”

  Thomas was in his early sixties. Like most men his age, the majority of his hair had fallen out, his skin was starting to peel, and it would only be another year or so until he expired completely. He had moved into the house across the street only a few months after Conrad and Denise had finally settled and got all of their things unpacked. He was a widower, his wife having expired the year before, and as it turned out he used to be a Hunter too. Thomas had actually been the first one to approach him about this. After a month or two, while Conrad was outside, Thomas came up and claimed that by just looking at him he could tell he was a Hunter. At first Conrad denied it, tried to play it off as a joke, but eventually Thomas got it out of him and they quickly became friends.

  Now, looking worried, Thomas said, “How did they track you?”

  “I don’t know. We’re still trying to figure that out.”

  “But I thought you always watch out for tails.”

  “I do. But I was still in the
city when this happened.” Conrad shrugged, not sure what else to tell his neighbor, getting antsy because after everything he’d been through he just wanted to go inside and see his family.

  Thomas glanced at the new car again, then at the bouquet of flowers in Conrad’s hand (a different bouquet, of course, the other having burned in the explosion), and he said, “You want to go inside and see your wife and son, I know. I’m sorry for talking to you like this.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “But I just ... I miss it, you know?”

  “I know.”

  “Just remember what I always tell you: anything you need, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask.” Thomas smiled and started backing away, shooing Conrad toward the house. “Go. Go be with your family.”

  • • •

  Conrad found Kyle in the existing room. His nine-year-old son was on the floor in front of the TV, a controller in his hands, playing the latest video game based on Conrad’s father. Henry the Hunter 6: Destruction, the game was called, and it was required for every child in the world to play at least two hours of this game each day. That was why the typical school day consisted of only five hours, so that the students had time to make it home to finish their studies.

  The game was just like all the rest, an endless battle of Hunter versus thousands and thousands of zombies. All children played the part of Henry—even girls, though girls were forbidden to become Hunters per the Hunter Code—and with Henry’s famous broadsword in hand they would move through cities, towns, forests, deserts, severing the heads of every living thing they encountered.

  At the moment Kyle was busy fighting an ax-wielding zombie. The zombie was massive—it looked like it weighed five hundred pounds, stood ten feet tall—and it kept swinging that gigantic ax. But Kyle didn’t back down. Using the controller, he ducked the blows, moved forward, moved back, until the right opportunity presented itself and he swung his own broadsword. And there, just like that, the blade connected with that thick neck and the massive head slid off those massive shoulders. The gray images on the screen flickered, the word WINNER! appeared, and as the game began to tally up the points for this round, Kyle noticed his father standing in the doorway and quickly stood up.

  “Sorry, Dad. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “That’s okay. How long have you been playing?”

  “About an hour.”

  “A lot of kills?”

  “Yeah, a lot. How was the trip?”

  “It was good.” Conrad looked around the existing room, noticed his wife had once again rearranged the furniture. “But the flight was a long one. Eight hours.”

  “That doesn’t sound fun at all.”

  “Trust me, it wasn’t. Where’s your mom?”

  “Kitchen, I think.” Kyle turned, yelled, “Mom, Dad’s home!” and then looked back at his father.

  “I could have done that, you know.”

  Kyle shrugged. “Did you see the news?”

  “No, why?”

  “Last night there was a zombie attack.”

  “There was?”

  “Yeah. And just a couple hours ago there was a bombing in the city.”

  “Really?”

  Kyle nodded, eager now, but before he could say anything else Denise appeared through the doorway from the dining room.

  “Hi,” she said, smiling at Conrad.

  “Hi.”

  Kyle looked at his mother, at his father, at his mother again. “I’m guessing you two want to be alone.”

  “That’s okay,” Conrad said. “We’ll go upstairs.”

  Kyle sat back down on the floor, picked up the controller.

  Denise walked across the existing room to meet Conrad in the doorway. She hugged him, kissed him on the cheek, and said, “Long flight?”

  Conrad nodded. “But guess what I brought you.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Come on, guess.”

  “Gee, I don’t know. Could it be flowers?”

  Smiling, Conrad brought the bouquet of flowers he’d been hiding out from behind his back. Denise smiled her beautiful smile and took the flowers from him. “Believe it or not,” she said, “I already have an empty vase filled with water just waiting for me to put something in it.” Then she noticed the bandages on his hands—he’d been keeping both of them behind his back, so Kyle wouldn’t see—and looked up at him sharply.

  Conrad made a show of yawning and said, “I’m ready for bed.”

  Denise glanced back into the existing room, made sure Kyle was absorbed in the game (the faint sound of zombies screaming was now coming from the TV), before gently taking Conrad’s hand. She led him up the steps and down the hallway to the master bedroom. She closed the door behind them and immediately turned to face him.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing major.” He looked around the bedroom, trying to spot anything up here that might have been rearranged. “At the kill last night I somehow tripped and fell on my hands, scraped them pretty badly.”

  “But you wear gloves when you hunt.”

  One thing about his wife: not much ever got past her.

  “It’s nothing, okay?” He held up his hands, so she could see there really weren’t that many bandages. “They’ll be on for a day or two and come off and everything will be fine.”

  She noticed his posture, the way he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Is something wrong?”

  “It’s just ... it’s been a long week.”

  “I’m sure it has.”

  She led him to the bed. Once seated, Conrad took off his shoes, started undoing his jeans. Denise helped him with his shirt. When he yawned again, she said, “You really are tired.”

  “I’m exhausted.”

  “Maybe I should tell you later.”

  “Tell me what?”

  She went to the bathroom, returned with the special lotion the doctor had prescribed. “How long do you plan to sleep?”

  “A day or two.”

  She smiled, opened the cap, and squirted some of the lotion in her hand. “Here. Let me do your back.”

  She climbed onto the bed behind him and started rubbing it into his skin. Next she did his arms, carefully worked around the bandages on his hands, told him to lie back down so she could do his legs.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Tired.”

  “You know what I mean. Has this lotion ... has it helped any?”

  Five months ago Conrad had started losing his hair. Only a few strands here and there, but then he found some flakes of skin falling off too, and so they made an appointment with a doctor. Some tests were run and came back to show that there were no parasites in Conrad’s body. The doctor could not determine why Conrad’s hair and skin had begun falling out, but he ordered Conrad to use the recommended lotion that would help replenish his skin.

  “I think it has.”

  “Are you lying to me?”

  “No.”

  Denise finished up with his legs. She recapped the bottle, set it on the nightstand, and went to the windows to close the blinds. The midday sunlight winked out, first from the one window, then from the other, and she came back over and sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “Ready for my news?”

  His eyes were closed. He had begun drifting ever since she started rubbing the lotion into his skin. He hadn’t known she had any news, but he grunted a yes anyway.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Conrad opened his eyes.

  She smiled down at him. “With twins.”

  Conrad pushed himself up into a sitting position. He was speechless. He reached out, touched her hand, her arm, her shoulder, her face. She continued smiling back at him, and with no words to say, none to express his surprise, his shock, his complete happiness, he leaned forward and pressed his dry and decayed lips against hers.

  4

  Norman called him the next morning on his mobile phone. “You awake?”

  “I am now.”

  �
��How are you feeling?”

  Still lying in bed, Conrad yawned and looked at the alarm clock. It was nine-thirty. Today was Sunday, which meant he wasn’t due back to work until tomorrow, when Norman would take him to his new work location. The folder he’d accepted had been nothing more than a contract, which he’d been asked to sign and date, and though he’d read the fine print, he had gotten no answers, just as he had gotten none from Norman when he asked.

  “I could be better.”

  “The mechanic that approached you yesterday, obviously he was expired in the explosion, but his daughter? She’s been in and out of consciousness all night, and just a few hours ago she finally came to. She told the police some man approached her father at the gas station and offered him money to pick a fight with you.”

  Conrad sat up, yawning again. “Any luck on the car or van?”

  “Both stolen. The police found the van late last night, abandoned. It was dropped off in the Ward, so already most of it had been dismantled.”

  “Great. Any matches on the driver?”

  “The guy was a pro. He must have known exactly where the cameras were placed at the station, because the police never once caught his face.”

  Conrad said, “We still going ahead with the plan for tomorrow?”

  “Unless you’re scared.”

  “Very funny,” he said, and disconnected the call.

  After taking a shower and applying the lotion to his skin, he got dressed and went downstairs to find Kyle in the existing room. His son was in the same exact place on the carpet he’d been yesterday. The controller was in his hands and again he was playing the video game, this time fighting a fat zombie with long hair who was using a machine gun to fight back.

  Conrad stayed in the doorway, watching his son. He ignored the noise coming from the TV and concentrated on Kyle’s set face, on his black eyes, as his son tried to destroy this latest abomination.