Land of the Dead

by Robert Swartwood

“It’s the only thing I want.”

  Thomas was quiet for another moment, chewing his bottom lip. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the mobile phone. “Mind if I make a call?”

  “To who?”

  “A friend of mine. Not another sympathizer, but just someone I’ve known a long time, someone who owes me a couple of favors.”

  “What kind of favors?”

  “It doesn’t matter. But if I tell him I need a car and some clothing, no questions asked, he’ll provide. I mean, I don’t think we can go try to pick up Kyle at Psyche driving around in the thing that brought us here. Do you?”

  Conrad considered it. Not the fact that they needed a new car—it was obvious they did—but whether or not he could trust Thomas. The neighbor who’d lived across the street for the past ten years had turned out to be a lie, and who was to say he wasn’t lying now?

  “Thomas.”

  “Yes?”

  “The book you gave my mother, the children’s one. What was it called?”

  Thomas closed his eyes. “It was ... something about a princess. The Princess and something, I can’t remember what. Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “You’re having trouble trusting me now, aren’t you? I can’t say I don’t blame you. If you want, you can stand here while I make the call, listen in on everything I say.”

  “No, I trust you. And I ...”

  Thomas looked at him, waiting.

  Swallowing, Conrad said, “I appreciate everything you’ve done. Not just for me, but ... you know.”

  “Yes,” Thomas said. “I know.”

  • • •

  Gabriel was still standing there watching James, his hands clasped in front of him, when Conrad approached. The zombie’s face had dried of tears but his eyes were still wet, and even though Conrad came to stand only a few feet away, those eyes continued staring down into the hole.

  Conrad watched James work for a while, the zombie without his shirt on, his dark skin smooth, the muscles beneath defined. He was about ready to break the silence, needing to speak with Gabriel, when Gabriel finally spoke.

  “I never saw a dead person before. And I don’t mean like you, but like ... like me. Like me and James, from living to dead in just an instant.”

  Gabriel seemed to be speaking to him but the old zombie still hadn’t looked up, was still directing his gaze at the hole.

  “I always knew it happened. I heard stories of what you and the rest of you Hunters did. I was able to ... imagine it happening. But actually seeing Eric get shot like that, seeing the blood splatter everywhere and then ... then ... then hear the sounds Eric started to make after it happened.” Gabriel closed his eyes, sniffed back more tears. “I just never imagined it’d be like that. I can’t even explain anymore what it was I’d imagined, but ... not like that.”

  The hole was almost filled back in now, the pile of dirt beside the grave almost gone.

  Gabriel looked up at him for the first time, and he wiped his eyes, his nose, his mouth. “Does this make sense to you? Why we’re burying him? Because to be honest, it doesn’t to me. I know we’ve already discussed the rituals of the old world, of cemeteries, but ...”

  Gabriel shook his head, wiped his eyes, glanced back down into the hole.

  “I’m sorry about before. About lying to you. I didn’t ... I didn’t mean to deceive you. Or no, maybe I did. I don’t even know anymore. But my intention was not to use you and your son. It really wasn’t. It just ... happened that way. I didn’t expect things to work out like they did, and then Harper and his men showed up and then ... no, no, wait. Maybe I did intend to use you and your son. I don’t—I don’t know anymore.”

  James continued his work like they weren’t even there, almost done filling the hole.

  “If you want me to be completely honest with you, Conrad, I’m scared. I’m scared of dying. And I was thinking ... well, if everyone was living again, then I wouldn’t have to die. I wouldn’t have to live with this ... this fear. But then Harper said no and then you left and I just ... I realized I made a mistake. I lied to you, and I’m sorry.”

  “Are you sorry your plan didn’t work out,” Conrad said, “or are you sorry you lied to me?”

  James was still ignoring them but paused in his work, stood statue-still for a moment.

  Gabriel wiped his eyes again. “I screwed up. I should have been honest with you from the start. But I knew you wouldn’t listen. You wouldn’t understand. And now ... well, now Eric is dead. And that right there, that’s irony. Because I’m the one that’s always wanted to die, I’m the one that thought countless times of killing myself. But you know? Now I don’t want to die. I want to live. But that doesn’t matter, because Eric is dead and soon James and I will be dead, and soon all the rest of the living will be dead, and there will be no more living on this earth and ... and ... and I can’t decide anymore whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”

  James finished filling in the hole. He tossed the shovel on the ground and stalked toward the water, bent at the edge to dip in his hands.

  Conrad said, “Why did you give me that warning like you did? Why did you come for me?”

  “Because I have nothing else. When I die, I’ll have nothing to show for it. And after lying to you, I told Eric and James we needed to do something right. We needed to do something ... honorable.”

  Conrad looked down at the grave. “And this was honorable?”

  Gabriel closed his eyes again, placed his hands to his face. “I don’t even know what’s honorable anymore.”

  James was still crouched by the water, washing his face and his arms and his chest.

  Conrad said, “Right now my son is the most important thing in the world to me. In many ways I dishonored him, and I want to make it right. Thomas and I plan to get him back.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “We don’t have one yet. But we can’t wait any longer. We’re going tonight. Do you still want to help?”

  Sniffing back more tears, Gabriel nodded.

  “Just so we’re clear,” Conrad said, “I don’t think I can ever forgive you.”

  “I understand. I don’t think I would forgive me either.”

  Thomas appeared from behind some trees, the mobile phone in hand, walking toward them and giving Conrad the thumbs up.

  Staring down at the grave, Gabriel said, “Conrad?”

  “What?”

  “Did you ever once think in your existence you would be working with a zombie?”

  “Never.”

  Gabriel looked up at him, nodded once. “Let’s go get your son.”

  46

  Denise didn’t notice the flowers at first.

  She was out walking the puppy—she had yet to give it a name—letting the pup lead her around the edge of the parking lot, past all the parked cars surrounding the Meadowland Inn. It was eight o’clock now and the sun had just set and the night had come on strong, a heavy breeze moving the tops of trees and sending pieces of trash skittering across the pavement. She could just make out the skyline of Olympus, the distant and twinkling lights of the buildings, and wondered what it was like there right now. From what Tony said General Hager had mandated an immediate curfew which would go into effect at nine o’clock tonight, which gave all those people now in the city less than an hour to get off the streets and make it home.

  The puppy sniffed at a tree, raised his little leg, piddled, and moved on. Most of the time he needed to pull on his leash because Denise wasn’t paying attention, staring off at the city’s skyline again, and it was when the leash jerked forward that she blinked, glanced down, and noticed the patch of flowers.

  They were wild flowers, short with small petals. There were maybe a dozen of them, just growing there in the grass by the edge of the pavement, only a few feet away from a tree. She bent down and looked at them more closely, wishing she had brought a flashlight so she wouldn’t have to rely on the fading light of the sodium arc lamps abo
ve her. She reached for one of the petals, touched it, and was about to pluck the flower from the ground when the puppy poked his snout at the flower, sniffed, turned and raised his little leg.

  “Oh no you don’t,” Denise said, standing and jerking the leash to move him away before the dog pissed on any of the flowers.

  The puppy looked up at her, his little head titled, confused.

  Denise bent back down, pointed at the flowers, said, “No.” She patted his head to show him that she wasn’t mad at him, then plucked six flowers from the dozen that were there, bundled them in her hand, and stood up.

  She spent the next ten minutes letting the puppy lead her around the edge of the parking lot, no longer watching the skyline but staring down at the gray flowers. And as she stared at them she thought about Conrad. She remembered the first time he brought her home flowers, right after they’d been married and he’d been gone a week, how she’d been so excited to see him that the moment he walked through the door, extending the bouquet, she jumped at him and hugged him, crunching the flowers between them. And she remembered as the months and years passed that she could always rely on him bringing her flowers, and that while it was something he didn’t have to do anymore and something Jess always said was cheesy, Denise always looked forward to the simple gesture, getting a vase ready for that day’s bouquet.

  But that was the past, and this was the present, and in the present she had learned a lot of new things, namely that her husband was a liar. He lied about his work, about his fears regarding Kyle, and because of that Kyle had been taken away. Mostly, though, he lied about him and Jess, and kept from her that one night he kissed her sister and tried to have his way with her but Jess managed to fight him off, threatened to tell Denise, and Conrad, realizing his mistake, cried and begged her to never say a word.

  And it was all of this, all having come at her at the same time, that made Denise hate Conrad, made her never want to see her husband again.

  The puppy jerked on his leash, moving them closer toward the hotel.

  She thought about Jess, about how all their existences her little sister had never told the truth. About how Jess was always lying to their parents when they were girls, staying out late and coming home with some sorry excuse, and how even though Jess had a series of boyfriends she seemed to always flirt with the few boys Denise brought home. And how Jess used to actually like Conrad, how she was in support of Denise dating him when Denise’s own parents were not, and how for the first two years as man and wife Conrad and Jess got along fine, until one day it seemed things just spiraled out of control and they could no longer stand each other.

  They were close to the room now. Denise looked down at the puppy, the puppy looked up at her, and when she asked if it was done, it barked.

  “Good enough for me,” she said.

  Tony had gotten them two adjoining rooms. Denise let herself into her room, unhooked the puppy’s leash, and started toward the bathroom. She paused when she reached the door that connected her room with her sister’s and Tony’s. She listened and could just hear their voices on the other side.

  She continued on into the bathroom. She took one of the glasses on the counter, pulled off the paper lid, and filled it with water. She placed the half dozen flowers in the glass, breaking their stems so that they would fit and stand just right. Then she took her makeshift vase back into the main room, set it down beside the TV, and sat back on the bed.

  The puppy came and sat down next to the bed, stared up at her with his dead tongue lolling.

  Denise stared at the arrangement she had made, then glanced down at the puppy. She told herself she was making the right choice, that now not only did she have to worry about Kyle, but also the unanimated twins. She was a mother first, a wife second, but still ...

  She heard her sister and Tony off in the next room, Jess now giggling, and staring down at the puppy, Denise whispered, “Do you know something? I think I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

  • • •

  On the outskirts of the city, in an abandoned warehouse by the river, Harper counted the men and women who had come from all over the continent, the world, to be here. So far he counted about five hundred, but more were on the way.

  To the man beside him he said, “How many more?”

  “At least another hundred.”

  “When?”

  The man shrugged. “Whenever they get here.”

  The rest of his men were handing out the assault rifles, showing those who had never fired or loaded a rifle just how to do it properly. These people were not soldiers like Harper and his men; they were schoolteachers and doctors and nurses and lawyers, plumbers and carpenters and electricians and clerks. They were mothers and fathers, husbands and wives, who did not like the world they lived in, who had never liked it, and they were now here to try to make a difference even if it meant they would expire in the process.

  And Harper, staring out at all of them, knew that tonight many of them would.

  • • •

  At the top of the Herculean, in what was once The Restaurant, Philip stood in the dark and stared down at the city below him. He liked being up this high, seeing for miles and miles around. He liked that those citizens in the city didn’t know he was watching, and that if they did they would have to look up to see him.

  The ding of the elevator sounded out in the silence. The door slid open and footsteps approached.

  Without looking Philip knew it was Michael, and when the footsteps stopped behind him, he said, “Any news yet?”

  “None.”

  “Has our contact checked back in?”

  “No.”

  Staring out at the city below him, at the millions and millions of lights, Philip said, “Then why are you bothering me during my private time?”

  His private time was something he had just started last night, turning off all the lights on the top floor so that there was no glare as he stared down at the city.

  “It’s regarding the two Pandoras you’ve requested,” Michael said.

  “Yes?”

  “They’ve just arrived.”

  • • •

  The outside of the Psyche Institute was dark and quiet. The parking lot was mostly empty. Around back, by the dumpsters, two orderlies shared a smoke. Or rather Len smoked his cigarette while Wesley stood by and watched and tried to act like he didn’t mind the smoke when it was blown straight into his face.

  Len, watching Wesley fidgeting with his hands, said, “Why are you so nervous?”

  “I’m not nervous.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Okay, fine. I am nervous. But aren’t you?”

  Len took a drag of the cigarette, tried to blow a smoke ring. He shook his head.

  “You’re lying.”

  “No,” Len said, “I’m not.”

  “Yeah,” Wesley said and did his best to stop fidgeting with his hands, stuffed them in his pockets. “Yeah, I guess I’m not either. I mean, they said they’d handle everything anyway, so what’s there to worry about?”

  “I ever tell you I tried out to be a Hunter?”

  “No.”

  “Well I did. They said I wasn’t good enough. Couldn’t pass their tests, whatever the fuck that means.”

  “When did you do this?”

  “Long time ago. Years.”

  “I never knew that.”

  “That’s because I never told you, dickhead.”

  “Hey,” Wesley said, because he had already talked to Len about calling him a dickhead, how it hurt his feelings and how his therapist—though he would never tell Len about his therapist—told him it was good for him to express his feelings vocally like that.

  Len waved a dismissive hand, said, “Anyway.” He took another drag of his cigarette, stepped close to Wesley. “I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of this shitty job. I want better.”

  Wesley looked around at the dumpsters, at some of the trash on the ground. “It’s not so bad.”

/>   “I want to actually live in a house, you know? I want to make some decent money. I want some fucking respect. You know what I mean?”

  Wesley thought about his therapist, about what she said regarding respect and how one had to earn it.

  Len took one final drag, flicked the butt out into the grass. “If it comes down to it, I’m going to take them out myself.”

  “But they said—”

  “I don’t give a fuck what they said. If I take them out myself, prove my worth, General Hager will have to make me a Hunter.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t but me, dickhead.”

  Wesley, looking down at his shoes, said, “Don’t call me that.”

  “Sure, dickhead. But first stop being a dickhead.”

  They left the dumpsters and went inside, just as down the hill a car turned the corner, its headlights leading it up the drive.

  • • •

  In room 24 of C Ward, Kyle lay quietly in his bed. He stared up at the ceiling, at the little moonlight that shone through his barred window. If he could have it his way, he would be asleep, because when he was asleep he didn’t have to be reminded of where he was and that his mom and dad were far away. But he couldn’t sleep. He could only lie there in bed and stare at the ceiling and try to ignore the sounds coming from the other side of his door, those of sobbing and whimpering and whispering, the other children and adults kept in these cells already starting to lose their minds.

  • • •

  The lobby was dark and quiet. Behind the desk sat the receptionist. Like Wesley, she was nervous, even though she knew she shouldn’t be. Because the Hunters had told her everything would be okay. The Hunters had told her that no matter what happened, she would be safe.

  So she sat there, her head down looking at a magazine. She didn’t raise her head when the entrance doors opened. She didn’t raise her head when the four sets of footsteps approached her. She didn’t even raise her head when the footsteps stopped and the four men stood right in front of her desk. She only raised her head when one of them cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me, miss?”