Land of the Dead

by Robert Swartwood

  Flashlight in hand, he retraced the steps of his son, the steps of Ruth, the steps of Scott, Garry, and Brooks, until he came to the place to which Kyle was called.

  Finding the gray-flashing device, he set it aside.

  Finding the shovel on the ground, he picked it up.

  Placing the flashlight so it was aimed directly at the hole and the sparkling piece of quartz, he began to dig.

  • • •

  The puppy now quieted and in her arms, Jessica returned to the existing room. Denise was back on the couch. She leaned forward, her face in her hands. Jessica wanted to sit down beside her sister, wanted to show her sister support, but she could do nothing else except stand motionless.

  “Denise?”

  Her sister slowly brought her face out of her hands. She stared forward for a moment, staring into space, before looking up at Jessica.

  “I think I’m almost there,” she whispered. “I think I’m almost to the place where I hate him.”

  • • •

  In the back of the SUV, holding his broken ankle, Scott said, “Would you slow down? I don’t want to expire on the way to the doctor.”

  They were still on the Shakespeare, about a mile outside Olympus, another ten minutes or so from the hospital.

  “Relax,” Garry said, his hands tight on the steering wheel. The SUV’s windshield wipers squeaked back and forth. “I’m making up for lost time.”

  “Slow down,” Scott repeated. “That’s an order.”

  Garry glanced up in the rearview mirror, grinned back at him. “Yeah, well, you know where you can stick that order?”

  He pressed his foot down even harder on the gas.

  • • •

  He didn’t wait long before they arrived. First the sound of twigs snapping, of their voices, of bouncing beams of flashlights piercing the dark, and then they appeared, both of the Diggers, one with a shovel, the other with a black plastic container.

  “I’ve already dug it up,” Conrad said. He sat on the muddy ground, the perfect three-inch cube in his hands.

  The Digger with the shovel said, “Why’d you do that?”

  “It’s my son’s.”

  “Say what?’

  “My son touched it earlier tonight, so now it’s his.”

  The Digger with the plastic case said, “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “All right,” said the Digger with the shovel. “Thanks for the help. Now can you, um, give it here?”

  “Sure,” Conrad said. “But only under one condition.”

  • • •

  The puppy squirmed in her arms, started barking again. Jessica set it down on the carpet.

  “Do you think that’s wrong?” Denise asked. “Me wanting to hate him?”

  Jessica found that she could no longer stand. She sat down next to her sister.

  “I mean, he has always provided for me and Kyle. Neither of us ever had to go without. But ...”

  Jessica closed her eyes. She had been waiting for this moment, anticipating it, hoping for it. Yes, at one time she was attracted to Conrad, and yes, one time she almost had him. But he had to go and screw it up. He had to go and reject her, and nobody, absolutely nobody, rejected her.

  • • •

  Garry said, “Hold on to your socks,” and he took the off-ramp faster than he should, the SUV doing that thing again where it felt like it was on two wheels.

  They came to the bottom of the ramp. The light was black and they waited, waited, waited until it turned white. Garry punched the gas. The SUV jerked forward.

  • • •

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” said the Digger with the plastic container. “It’s been a slow night anyway. We might as well take you now.”

  Conrad got up from the ground. Still holding Kyle’s Pandora, he hoped to feel some movement from within, some kind of beating.

  The Digger with the shovel watched as his fellow Digger opened the container, watched as Conrad gently set it inside. Then he said, “Okay, let’s go.”

  • • •

  Denise opened and closed her fist holding the wad of tissues. She stared down at it, as if hypnotized.

  “And it’s not like I don’t love him. I do. But there have just been so many ... so many lies. And now ... now Kyle’s gone.”

  She looked up at Jessica, her face pinched and full of sadness, anguish, pain.

  “When will I ever see him again? I want him back. I want my son back right now.”

  “Shh,” Jessica said and placed her hand on Denise’s knee. “It’s okay. I’ll give Tony a call. He’ll know what to do.”

  “My baby,” Denise said, once more closing and opening her fist, watching that wad of tissues. “My baby is gone.”

  • • •

  The hospital was seven blocks away, six blocks, five, and Garry pushed the pedal to the floor, there was a row of white lights ahead of them and he knew he could make each one.

  “Would you fucking slow down?” Scott said.

  This worry was reiterated by Brooks and even Ruth, both asking him to just slow down and take his time.

  “Don’t worry,” Garry said, “I know what I’m doing,” and it was right as they went through the next intersection, right at that instant, that a truck ran a black light and smashed into them.

  • • •

  Neither of the Diggers allowed him to hold the plastic container. He was to sit in the back of the van, wear his seatbelt, and not speak a word. That was the deal, and that was exactly what he did. Sitting there quietly, staring out his window, watching the rain and the passing trees, Olympus in the background, as they headed up into the mountains toward the Warehouse.

  • • •

  Jessica thought about her secret, the one she had kept all this time from her sister. She knew Conrad never said anything to Denise, otherwise Denise would have confronted her about it.

  She had kept this secret, hoping to use it at the right time. And now, right this moment, as much as Denise was in a terrible place, Jessica felt it was only appropriate to let the secret slip.

  “Denise.”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s”—she paused, glanced away, cleared her throat—“there’s something I need to tell you.”

  • • •

  The sounds at the intersection of Cheever and 65th: the steady beat of falling rain, a single shout of agony, the bleating of a car alarm, people asking if everyone was okay, the driver getting out of his truck, clearly intoxicated, saying that damned thing just pulled out right in front of me, and off in the distance, heading their way, the oncoming rush of police sirens.

  • • •

  He had passed the large white building at least fifty times, but had never actually been in the parking lot. Had never actually walked up the sidewalk, toward the front doors. Had never actually gone through those doors, following now the two Diggers, who continued past the two guards stationed at the desk.

  One of the guards stood up at once and asked Conrad to stop. “Sorry,” he said, “but this is a restricted area.”

  “Albert gave me clearance.”

  “It hasn’t been brought to our attention.”

  The Diggers continued down the corridor toward a set of double doors, taking Kyle’s Pandora farther and farther away from him.

  “Then check your records again. I’m cleared.”

  “But—”

  Conrad stepped around the guard. He got only two feet before a meaty paw clamped onto his arm and pulled him back.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Conrad spun around, threw his fist into the guard’s stomach, elbowed the guard in the face. The other guard was already on his feet. He came at Conrad with his pistol raised but Conrad smacked the weapon away, broke the guard’s arm, threw him into the wall. He was turned back around, walking, before he heard the second guard even hit the floor.

  Farther ahead, the two Diggers had disappeared through those double doors
. Conrad hurried toward them. He wanted to see, needed to see, what was inside.

  • • •

  “Yes? What is it? What do you need to tell me?”

  “Well, it’s just ... no, never mind. This definitely isn’t the right time.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “It’s just ...”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s about Conrad.”

  Her voice darkening, Denise said, “What about him?”

  “Not just him. About me and him. About us.”

  • • •

  The room was enormous. It was a warehouse. There was even someone operating a forklift. And all around this room were stacks and stacks of those small black plastic containers. And in all of those small black plastic containers were Pandoras. Not just a few either, like a couple thousand, or a couple hundred thousand, but millions.

  He stood there, staring, uncertain what to say, do, think. There was a sound coming from around him, a very faint, almost distant sound. It was a chaotic noise, nothing with rhythm, yet he somehow understood that it was supposed to be a beating—that all the Pandoras, combined like this, created this constant, pulsating sound.

  Conrad was still staring, listening, when a half dozen guards crashed through the door behind him, threw him to the ground, and, just like his son, placed handcuffs around his wrists.

  • • •

  It had stopped raining by the time Philip arrived to the scene. He parked his car at the corner and walked over to the smashed up SUV.

  “Lieutenant Hager?” one of the policeman said.

  “Where is it?”

  The policeman motioned him to the SUV. He stepped forward and opened the back door. Inside, bound and gagged, was a female zombie.

  “From what we can tell,” the policeman said, “her name is Ruth.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Those three men over there, the ones my men are guarding, they were all on scene when we arrived. Each had Hunter badges. But when we called it in to your people, none of them were in the system.”

  “Did any of them talk?”

  “No, sir. But when we arrived, one of them was talking to the zombie, and he kept calling her Ruth.”

  Philip nodded, thanked the policeman, and asked to be alone.

  “Sir?”

  “Beat it.”

  After the policeman had left, Philip leaned into the SUV. The zombie’s face was streaked with tears. Its leg was covered in blood, some of the bone sticking out.

  “Hello, Ruth,” Philip said. He withdrew a knife from his pocket, held it up for her to see. “I hope you have some energy left, because you and I are going to have some fun.”

  part three

  LIVING

  31

  The room they’d locked him in wasn’t much larger than a closet. The only thing inside it was a plastic chair, and on that plastic chair was a book. A very thick book.

  Conrad had stared at it for a long time, uncertain what to do, whether to take the four steps forward and pick up the book or just stand there against the locked door and stare at it. In the end he took those four steps and picked up the book.

  There were words on the cover—Crime and Punishment and Fyodor Dostoevsky—but those words meant nothing to him. Just as when he eventually sat down and opened the book, began flipping through the pages, the words printed there meant nothing. He was able to read the words, but those words had no effect on him, no meaning, and after a while he shut the book and set it on his lap, leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

  His eyes were still closed when, some time later, the door opened. The low drone of Albert’s wheelchair announced the scientist as he rolled into the closet. Norman followed.

  Conrad sat up straight in his seat. He remembered the book was still on his lap and he went to hide it but there was no place to put it.

  “Did you like your reading material?” Albert asked. “When they called me and told me what you did and that they were going to lock you up, it was my suggestion they leave you a book to look at to pass the time. And, well, the one in your lap seemed the most appropriate.”

  “When am I going to be released?”

  “No, no.” Albert raised a finger and wagged it in front of Conrad’s face. “We ask the questions. You answer them.”

  “Don’t punish the rest of the team for what happened. I was the one that forced them to break protocol.”

  “Is that right?” Albert said and looked up at Norman.

  Norman said, “He doesn’t know.”

  “I don’t know what?”

  “It doesn’t matter if he knows or doesn’t know,” Albert said. “Everything that’s happened now is because of him.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Turning his attention back to Conrad, the scientist said, “When was the last time you saw the rest of your team?”

  Conrad didn’t answer.

  “We know about your son. We know your wife called you and that you and the rest of your team went straight there to track him down. Remember, we have the Pandora he dug up stored away in the Warehouse, the time, date, location, and because he apparently touched it, even his name. So I’ll ask you again. When was the last time you saw the rest of your team?”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “About six hours.”

  “Then it was last night. Around two o’clock.”

  “And where is your son now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He was arrested, wasn’t he? You told the police it was proper procedure in an event where a child tries to turn himself. Correct?”

  Conrad nodded.

  “You told them to take him to the Psyche Institute.”

  He nodded again.

  “Why?” Albert asked.

  “Why?”

  “Yes, why. Why did you tell the police to take him to Psyche?”

  “It’s standard protocol in a situation such as this. A child needs to be evaluated by a psychiatrist to determine whether he was in the right frame of mind when he attempted to turn.”

  “Really, Conrad, and where does it say that?”

  For the first time Conrad looked away. His gaze shifted down to the cover of the book, to those five words staring back at him in black and white.

  “Conrad?”

  He looked up.

  “Answer the question.”

  “I told you. It’s standard protocol that when a child—”

  “Where, though? Where does it say it’s standard protocol?”

  “The Hunter Code.”

  Albert smiled a very grim smile and shook his head. “No. It doesn’t.”

  Conrad looked at Norman, looked back at Albert.

  “The reality, Conrad, is that any child caught attempting to turn is taken in by the Government. I’d mentioned this to you before. These children become our test subjects.”

  Norman cleared his throat. “Just tell him.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Only one time before,” Albert said, “has a child been taken in for psychiatric treatment after attempting to turn. And until about a half hour ago, I didn’t even know that.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Your father covered all his bases, Conrad. He made sure to keep everything sealed up as tight as he could. And I don’t who did it, or how, but someone managed to unseal that secret.”

  “Norman,” Conrad said, “what is going on here?”

  “This close.” The scientist held up his hand, his thumb and forefinger barely touching. “You came this close to turning.”

  Conrad only stared at him, his mouth open.

  “Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  Little by little, Conrad’s gaze dropped toward the book.

  “You tried to turn and your father stopped you and he took you to get help. And you got help, didn�
�t you? Of course you did. You got help and then you became a Hunter just like your old man.”

  Those black and white words, staring back at him.

  “Maybe that’s where it all started, the beginning of this ... this Ripple Effect. Because you lied to yourself from the beginning. You lied to everyone.”

  Those words meaning something he couldn’t understand, could never understand.

  “The only thing that’s certain now,” Albert said, “is that you never should have become a Hunter in the first place.”

  32

  Without another word Albert turned his wheelchair around and rolled through the door. Norman nodded to him once as he passed, and then the scientist was gone and it was just Conrad and the old captain.

  “Let’s go,” Norman said.

  Conrad stayed seated, his head down.

  “Damn it, Conrad, we don’t have time for this. We have to move.”

  Conrad stood up. He took a step forward when he realized he still had the book in his hands. He stood there as he had before, in a state of abeyance, uncertain what to do now with the book.

  Norman said, “Leave it,” and that was just what Conrad did, he placed the book on the chair where he’d first found it and followed the captain out of the room.

  The door closed behind them. They were in a long brightly lit corridor. The walls were white and the linoleum was polished.