Land of the Dead

by Robert Swartwood

  Philip had put his gun away, had gone through the kitchen drawers until he found what he wanted. Now he stood in front of Eugene, holding the carving knife to the man’s face. Some sunlight streaked through the curtains, illuminating the floating dust motes, and flashed off the edge of the blade.

  “Not quite a broadsword, but it’ll have to do.” Philip placed the tip of the knife to Eugene Moss’s forehead. “You love the living so much I’m guessing you won’t mind expiring like them.”

  Eugene Moss stared past the knife up at Philip. “Please ... please don’t hurt my family.”

  “That’s up to you, Sergeant Moss. If you give me names, addresses, all contact information of everybody that was involved, I won’t be forced to hurt your family. I know you didn’t pull off that bomb all by yourself. That was too much firepower for one man, even if he is a crooked cop. Maybe you were the one that placed it there, but you weren’t the one that organized it. Come on, we both know you’re not smart enough for that.”

  Kevin and Michael returned from searching the house, shaking their heads at Philip to tell him they didn’t find anything. The mother and children sat clustered on the couch, sobbing. Conrad stood in the corner, watching the family but finding more interest in those floating motes of dust.

  “Please,” Eugene whispered, “don’t hurt them.”

  Philip removed the tip of the blade, pointed it down, and shoved it right into Eugene’s thigh.

  Eugene cried out, began shaking on the couch, his wife and children starting to scream again, and for some reason Conrad was reminded about his meeting hours ago, how Eugene was not feeling anything right now, not true actual pain.

  Philip yanked the knife back out. He stepped away and wiped what decayed flesh and muscle tissue there were off the blade onto the upholstery of the recliner. Then he turned back to Eugene, grabbed his head, and placed the tip of the knife so it was just a centimeter away from man’s left eye.

  “Names, Eugene. Give me the names, addresses, all contact information, and I won’t blind you. But maybe you want me to blind you. Maybe that way you won’t be forced to watch the rest of your family tortured to expiration.”

  Philip leaned in, his mouth only inches away from Eugene’s ear.

  “Is that what you want? Do you only want to hear them tortured, not see them?”

  Eugene Moss whispered, “Please, I am begging you—”

  “Begging me? You have no fucking right to beg for anything.”

  Philip stabbed Eugene in the leg again, stabbed him a third time, and when he went to stab him a fourth time the boy shouted, “Stop it, you monster! Stop it, stop it, stop it!”

  The mother, holding her daughter on her lap, had attempted to cover both her own eyes and her daughter’s, while at the same time keeping her son’s face hidden. It hadn’t been an easy task, and the boy had witnessed almost everything. Now, at the sound of his voice, the mother screamed and turned to him, told him to hush, be quiet.

  Philip laughed. He looked at Michael and Kevin, grinned, and said to the boy, “What did you call me?”

  The boy burrowed his face into his mother’s arm, and when Philip took a step toward him, Eugene Moss stood up.

  “No, don’t—”

  “Sit the fuck down!” Philip kicked Eugene back onto the couch. He turned back to the boy, took an extra step, crouched down in front of the boy and held the tip of the knife right at the boy’s head. “What did you call me?”

  The boy tried to burrow his face even farther into his mother’s side. Philip grabbed his arm, pulled him off the couch. The boy cried out, screaming for help, and once again Eugene Moss started to stand, started to protest, but Kevin stepped in and pushed him back down onto the couch, raised his gun, and held it right at man’s face.

  “Settle down, Eugene,” Philip said, dragging the boy into the middle of the existing room, “I just want to talk to your son. He says I’m a monster and I want to explain to him what a monster really is.”

  He bent down, pulled the boy back so the boy was forced to look up into Philip’s face.

  “You see, little boy, I’m not the monster here. I’m trying to do a good thing. I’m trying to protect the world from zombies and zombie lovers like your old man over there. Yes, that’s right, he loves zombies so much he came to where I work today and planted a bomb that destroyed the entire building and expired about twenty of my men. Now tell me, little boy, which one of us here is the monster?”

  When the boy didn’t respond, when he kept trying to pull away, Philip said, “Fine then, you want a monster, I’ll give you a monster,” and he pulled the boy close to him, held his arm around the boy’s neck, brought the knife up to—

  Conrad said, “Stop it.”

  Philip paused. He kept his back to Conrad in the doorway when he said, “This better be fucking good.”

  “Moss’s file.”

  Still holding the squirming boy, still with his back to Conrad, Philip said, “What about his file?”

  “It said he has three children. Get it, Philip? Not two. Three.”

  • • •

  After that it didn’t take very long. Michael and Kevin went back to search the house, this time more thoroughly. Philip released the boy back to his mother. Eugene Moss had turned in the couch and embraced his entire family, whispering to them, telling them that everything was going to be okay, when upstairs Michael called down.

  “Hey, Philip,” he shouted in a cracked, excited voice. “You’ll never guess what’s hiding up here.”

  13

  With the expired mutt’s leash and collar, they dragged the zombie child down the steps. Kevin brought up the rear and kicked the creature every couple of seconds to keep it in line, while Michael led it with the leash, smiling as he talked.

  “I can’t believe I missed it before. I’d already checked the closet in the one bedroom, didn’t see anything, but when I went back the second time I heard this whimpering. I mean, fucking jackpot or what?”

  The zombie child was no older than ten. It wore a T-shirt and sweatpants, the sweatpants stained with fresh urine. It was crying, real actual tears streaking its living face, and its hands clawed at the collar wrapped around its neck as they brought it into the existing room.

  Eugene Moss and his family became even more agitated when it was clear their third child had been found. The floating dust still caught in the shaft of sunlight—Conrad couldn’t seem to look away from those swirling motes—became frantic as the mother screamed again and the children renewed their cries. Eugene himself tried to stand up again, tried to speak, but he was kicked back down onto the couch and told that if he moved again he would earn a bullet in the head just like his dog.

  When the zombie child was brought into the existing room, saw its family on the couch, it cried out and tried to run to them. Michael yanked on the leash, jerking the zombie back. The ground disappeared from beneath its feet and it fell down hard on its rear. It cried out in pain and its weeping was even more intense than that of its dead brother and sister.

  “So,” Michael said, “I did pretty good, huh, Lieutenant?”

  Having placed the pistol in his pants pocket, Philip now held the carving knife with his arms crossed. He looked more stolid than ever standing there, watching the zombie child squirm about on the carpet, still clawing at the collar around its neck.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Considering that you should have found this monstrosity the first time you checked the upstairs, how happy with you should I be?”

  Michael was silent.

  “I hate to say it, but I have to give Conrad the credit here. If it wasn’t for him, this little piece of shit would still be hiding. Good work, Conrad.”

  Conrad didn’t acknowledge Philip. He just stood there in the corner of the existing room, his arms crossed, watching those dust motes that seemed to be dancing in the shaft of sunlight.

  “So, Eugene,” Philip said, “what’s the name of this thing?”

  Th
e zombie child lay on the floor, rolling its face into the carpet as it cried.

  When Eugene answered, his voice was barely a whisper.

  “I can’t hear you, Eugene.”

  “Kent.”

  Philip repeated the name once, slowly, as if trying to see how the single syllable rolled off his dead tongue. He got down on his knees, set the carving knife aside, and clapped his hands at the zombie.

  “Come here, Kent. Come here, boy.”

  The zombie continued crying into the carpet.

  Philip looked up at Eugene and shook his head. “Doesn’t make much of a pet, does it?”

  Eugene said, “Please, I am begging you—”

  “Stop fucking saying that. It really pisses me off, and you don’t want to piss me off anymore than you already have.”

  Philip grabbed the carving knife, stood up, and slowly approached the zombie. Eugene Moss’s wife started crying again, saying no, no, no, grabbing her two other children and trying her best to avert their faces.

  “Come on, Kent,” Philip said, “I just want to say hello. Don’t you want to say hello to me?”

  The zombie stopped crying and lay completely still.

  “Just say hello, Kent. Please? If you say hello, I’ll leave you and your family alone. I’ll forget all about what your dad did today. Everything will be forgiven. But first I want to hear you say hello. I want to hear you speak.”

  Philip lowered himself to the floor right next to the child, whispering to it, telling it that everything would be okay if it just said hello, and for some reason Conrad was reminded that Philip was renowned for the fact that the first zombie he had ever killed was his sister. He had been eight at the time, his sister two years older having just turned, and his father had actually debated with Philip’s mother whether or not they should try to hide her from the authorities. But young Philip would have none of it. He attacked his sister, broke her neck, then went after his traitorous father with a knife and almost expired him too until the police arrived and broke it up.

  It was then Philip knew he was destined to become a Hunter.

  And now here he was, Lieutenant Philip Hager, first in his graduating class at Artemis University, so dedicated to being a Hunter he had never taken a family, a man who absolutely loathed the living and everything they stood for—here he was now, down on his hands and knees, trying to get a zombie child to say hello.

  Conrad tore his gaze away from the dust motes. He looked down at Philip and remembered what Norman had told him, the sole reason he had been ordered to come here. But just how far was too far? And if it came down to it and Conrad stepped in and told Philip to stop, what would happen? With Michael and Kevin on Philip’s side, it was three against one.

  “Kent,” Philip said. “Oh, Kent? Please say hello. Please, please, pretty please?” When the zombie still wouldn’t move, Philip looked at Eugene. “What’s wrong with your boy? He doesn’t talk?”

  “You want names, addresses, contact information, I’ll give them all to you. Just please, don’t hurt my family.”

  “I don’t know,” Philip said. “I appreciate the offer and everything, but I’m afraid now it’s too little too late. However, if your son here says hello to me, I’ll spare his life. How does that sound?”

  Eugene looked at his wife. His wife looked at him. She slowly shook her head, mouthed no, but Eugene closed his eyes, bent his head, and seemed to think for a very long time.

  Finally he said, “Do I have your word?”

  “Of course.”

  Eugene raised his head, opened his eyes, stared down at his living son. “May I ... may I get down there and talk with him?”

  “Certainly.”

  Philip stood up and stepped back. Eugene glanced at his wife again, his wife who was still slowly shaking her head, mouthing no, but he ignored her and got to his feet. His legs trembled as he walked across the room, lowered himself to his knees, and placed a dry and decayed hand on his living son’s back.

  The zombie child cried out. It jumped, tried to get away, and Michael, still holding the end of the leash, jerked him back down.

  “Please,” Eugene said to Michael, holding up a hand.

  Michael looked at Philip for permission. Philip nodded. Michael tossed the end of the leash to Eugene, who immediately unhooked it from the collar around his son’s neck, then unbuckled the collar and set both it and the leash aside. He bent his head next to his son’s, whispered to him, said words of encouragement, and after about a minute Eugene leaned back.

  “Okay, Kent,” he said, and glanced warily at his family on the couch, “say hello to the man.”

  The zombie’s head was bent. Tears still covered its face. It wiped them away, sniffed back more tears, and slowly raised its living eyes to Philip.

  “Hell ... lo,” the zombie child said weakly.

  Philip smiled, nodded, and said, “Hello, Kent. How are you feeling?”

  Eugene said, “That wasn’t part of the deal. You said all he had to say was hello, and he said it.”

  “That’s right, I did say that. But do you want to know something?” Philip placed his hands behind his back, took a few steps forward, and smiled down at Eugene. “I was crossing my fingers.”

  What happened next happened quickly. Before Eugene Moss could say or do anything, Kevin hurried forward. He pulled Eugene to his feet and dragged him back to the couch as Philip stepped forward and grabbed the zombie child by the hair. It cried out in pain as it was yanked up into the air and the mother screamed and children screamed and Philip brandished the carving knife once more, holding it up in front of the zombie child’s face.

  “See, Eugene, the problem is you zombie-loving extremists think blowing up a Hunter Headquarters will solve everything. But you know what it does? It just pisses us off. Some might not take it too personally”—here Philip shot a glare at Conrad—“but me? I take it very fucking personally.”

  Holding the zombie by the hair, Philip used the carving knife to nick its face. Blood—real actual living blood—began its race with the tears.

  Eugene started to stand up again but Kevin stepped forward, grabbed him from behind, and pulled him back toward the recliner. Michael met them there, and when Kevin threw Eugene down into the chair, they worked it so Michael made sure the man stayed seated, Kevin standing behind the chair and reaching around Eugene’s head, holding him in place.

  “You should have let me blinded you, Eugene. You should have allowed me to do you that simple favor.”

  Eugene fought with Michael and Kevin; he shouted. His wife screamed again, and the children echoed her. The zombie child screamed too, it cried out, and the tone of its screams and cries were completely different from its dead family’s.

  “Names and addresses,” Philip said. He nicked another part of the zombie’s face.

  Eugene continued fighting, his wife and children continued screaming.

  “Names and addresses.”

  Another nick; more blood.

  “Names and addresses.”

  Even more blood.

  “Fine, Eugene. Then just listen.”

  The screams filled the room, those of the living and the dead, and when Eugene Moss finally began giving the names and addresses, Philip did not stop. He continued, and even though Conrad had come along to prevent this sort of thing, he stood where he was and watched those agitated dust motes swirling in the failing shaft of light.

  The screams were their music, and they danced and danced and danced.

  part two

  TRACKING

  14

  The zombie’s name was James. He was thirty-three years old. He was tall and broad shouldered and his skin was very dark.

  Conrad had seen zombie children with dark skin before—more a black than the usual gray—but he had never questioned it, because most times that particular zombie was quickly killed and any thought of it left his mind. But now he was working with these adult zombies—had been working with them for four days—and s
o these questions which usually crept into his dead mind and then quickly fled stayed to burrow their way even further into his brain, and he found himself thinking more and more about them until he finally got up the nerve to ask. Never one of the zombies, though—so far he’d done a good job of not talking directly to any of them—but to one of the Trackers, or to one of the scientists at Living Intelligence. He would ask his question—he made sure to space them out appropriately—and then he would listen to an answer which seemed very matter-of-fact but which still confused him.

  Like James’s skin color. According to one of the scientists, before the Zombie Wars, before the dead had taken the next step in evolution, the world’s living had been made up of many different races and nationalities and skin colors. Not at all like today, when nobody was separated by their race or nationality or skin color because none of those things existed.

  Four nights in a row Conrad had been working as a Tracker, and he had the next day off, where he would finally be able to go home and see his wife and son. He had talked to them every day on the phone—Kyle really wanting to talk to him now since he’d found out the truth—but missed them and wanted to actually see them, touch them, hold them. But right now it was four o’clock in the morning, they had another three hours to go, and then they would head back to Living Intelligence, report in, change and shower, and then he was as good as gone ... at least until his one full day was up and he came back to work.

  Not that he really minded the work a whole lot. It was definitely more involved than being a Hunter, where you spent most of your time in the Deck or driving around the city in the Humvees, and only really worked when a call came in and you grabbed your sword, your mask, and hurried off to kill the latest monstrosity to walk the earth.

  They were in a park down near the southern side of Olympus, the four Trackers and James. The three other Trackers were Garry, Brooks, and Scott. Scott had the highest rank. He called the shots but there were hardly any shots to call. The process of Tracking was very simple: you followed the zombie until it came to a place where a Pandora was buried, you tagged it with an electronic device for the Diggers, and then you went on your way.