This Dark Earth

by John Hornor Jacobs

  Every once in a while I feel something hit one of my feet. A hand, maybe. No biting, though.

  I want to die now. I want to die.

  The sound of gunfire wakes me. I’m trying to see below, but anymore I don’t have the energy to open my eyes.

  I want to die.

  The shambler choir stops and suddenly the horrible pressure around my groin, my chest, my hand is gone and I hit the pavement.

  God, that hurts. It just keeps getting worse, the pain.

  Keb says, “Holy shit, Lil Prince. Your chance of winning any beauty contests is totally fucked now, man.”

  I’m too tired to even scream when he picks me up, slings me over his shoulder, and walks me through the breaches in the fencing to his bike.

  There’s the rumbling of an engine. His Harley. I feel water, clean fresh water on my lips. The sensation is so bright, so electrifying, I could cry. He adjusts my body and then there’s wind, brisk wind, and I pass out.

  The world loves the tomato because it is red. Like man’s innards. His guts. Its pulp reminds us of our pulp, so easily exposed.

  And so delicious. I’d eat one of them like a fucking apple right now and drown myself in water and whiskey.

  I’d fuck Barb silly.

  They’re looking at me, in a ring. I remember this from the days when TV worked, the ring of worried faces. But there’s more, there’s something else.

  “Is that . . .” I try to talk, but I sound like Gollum or something, my voice all low, scratchy and evil.

  Mom looks behind her.

  Wallis says, “Lights. Joblo rigged your water gennies. So now we’ve got some lights. Some battery chargers too.”

  Mom cries, paws at me. I try to sit up, but Knock-Out looks down on me, shakes his head, and winks.

  I force myself up, and they back away. I’ve only got one eye working right now. It feels like they’ve bandaged my whole head.

  “What?” It’s hard to figure everything out. “What happened? Where’s Keb?”

  “He’s taking it easy. He rode you straight home, thirty-six hours after . . . after . . . well, we don’t really don’t know what happened. But he got you home. He’s been sleeping it off.”

  I nod. “Keb. He saved us all. Not just me. They killed Jasper . . . they questioned me . . . but Keb, he brought them all in. The zombies. Thousands of them. Keb brought them in.”

  I’m quiet for a minute, remembering.

  “What a sight to see.”

  Mom cries even harder now, and there’s nothing I can do to stop her. But then she stops, the tears wiped away, like she’s decided, just then, that that was enough.

  Wallis sits down on a chair in the tent—our command tent—and looks at me. I know I’ve got to spill.

  “Where’s Ellie? Where’s the baby?”

  Milly comes into the tent as if she were waiting for the question. Ellie is there in her arms, gurgling, cooing, swaddled in blankets.

  I stretch out my hands to take Ellie and . . . stop. There’s only one hand there.

  My right hand is gone halfway to the elbow.

  There are still tears running down Mom’s cheeks, but her face is blank. “It was putrid, honey. I had to amputate, otherwise you would’ve . . . you would’ve died.”

  I shouldn’t be alive anyway.

  So I say what needs to be said. “Thank you, Mom. I know that must’ve been hard for you. But I’ve got another.” I hold up my left.

  Everyone laughs and I wish Keb was here with us.

  I tell them everything, and their smiles fade. Everything. Knock-Out barks a funny little laugh when we get to the subject of royalty.

  “Me? King? What the hell were you thinking, boy?”

  I hold up my hand. “I wasn’t. He was cutting off my fingers and he seemed to want . . . he wanted us to have a king. He wanted me to be a prince. I don’t know why. Maybe because if he takes us, he’ll be king. I think that’s what he wants.”

  “Shhh.” Mom. She must feel horrible, but I wish she’d just let me be.

  Wallis presses his fingertips together. He’s figuring things out.

  Knock-Out looks at me and I meet his gaze. Not much to say, really, but I understand now. Death is too easy and always waiting. I’ve been down its throat.

  Ellie coos and Milly lays her in my lap. I look away from Knock-Out, his face streaming with tears, down at her little face, pink and perfect. For a little while, everything is better.

  “They won’t stop. They’ll be coming for us.”

  Wallis says, “Then we’ll be ready.”

  The world loves the tomato because it’s red, and its flesh is the flesh of man.

  Today is my day to work in the Garden. I’m not very much help now. My janked ankle hurts more than my missing hand, but Mom’s got me on some pills that deaden everything and make the sunshine bright and soothing on my skin.

  Barb, kneeling near me, says, “No. Dig in the soil like this, Gus. Break up the dirt and let the fertilizer get in the soil.”

  “I can’t.” I can still feel my missing hand. It tingles. Sometimes I imagine it around Konstantin’s throat. Like it’s off living a life of its own now. That’s a nice thought.

  “Oh.” She says it, but she’s not embarrassed. She’s just forgotten that my hand is gone. Like I do two hundred times a day. “Well, let’s get the basket and find the ripe ones, then.” She looks up, beyond Bridge City’s trusses, toward the blue sky and thin, watery sun. “It’s a beautiful day.”

  We pick tomatoes. We laugh and Barb touches me, on the shoulder, on my knee. Once, she falls silent and puts her hand on my crushed cheek.

  5

  THE BEAURACRACY OF THE DEAD

  MINUTES OF THE TULAVILLE RECLAMATION COMMITTEE

  DATE: May 23, 2018

  TIME: 9:00 AM

  PLACE: Command Tent B

  Present: Chairman Joblownski, Engineer Richards, Engineer Broadsword, Citizens Fulcher, Werk, Hammond, Bilyeu.

  Absent/Excused: Co-chair Ingersol (Gus)

  Secretary: Myself, Barbara Dinews

  ITEM: Jim Bilyeu, formerly of Ozark, Arkansas, explained to the committee the location of a galvanized tin warehouse, thirty miles distant, allegedly full of bricks, lumber, and, of course, galvanized tin. Bilyeu also informed the committee of the location of Winger’s Chain-Link and Siding Emporium, forty miles distant.

  His proposal is to take the eighteen-wheeler reclaimed from Tulaville Shell Truck Stop and outride to Ozark, with escorts, including a Bradley, and retrieve the building materials for use in the Tulaville Wall project.

  Heavy debate ensued.

  PROS: Dearth of building materials for fencing project, needed brick reinforcements for North and South Gate murderholes, plywood for further development on Bridge City.

  CONS: Ozark, Arkansas, population before Big Turnover around 5,000. Estimated. Zombie populace medium to heavy. Fuel expenditures, both gasoline and diesel, would be heavy. Human resources, heavy.

  MOTION: Engineer Richards moved to send a motorcycle team to scout the warehouse and chain-link depot and determine zombie population density. Citizen Hammond seconded.

  ROLL CALL VOTE

  AYE: Joblownski, Richards, Broadsword, Fulcher, Werk, Hammond

  NAY: Bilyeu

  ABSTAIN: Ingersol (Gus)

  VOTE: 6–1–1

  MINUTES OF THE RESOURCE ALLOCATION COMMITTEE

  DATE: May 15, 2018

  TIME: 9:00 AM

  PLACE: Command Tent B

  Present: Chairman Joblownski, Lucy Ingersol, Jim Nickerson, Engineer Broadsword, Engineer Richards, Co-chair Gus Ingersol, Keb Motiel

  Secretary: Barbara Dinews

  ITEM: A contentious meeting. I don’t know if I understand all the implications of it.

  First item of business, Gus presented Joblo with a list of required fuel, vehicles, and munitions for what he kept describing as a “day jaunt,” which had me, and I could tell the other engineers, puzzled. Joblo denied the request.
>
  Lucy said, “Joblo, just get us the damned gas and guns.”

  He looked startled. “We need that for Tinman, Lucy. I thought I made that clear.”

  “I don’t give a shit. You’ll give us what we want or I’ll never so much as look at the smallest scratch on your hand, I won’t diagnose you the next time you have the sniffles, I won’t set any broken bones. You’ll be out.”

  His jaw dropped. “But why?”

  Lucy stood. “It’s simple. Because we need it, and we’re gonna have it. I don’t want to bulldoze you, but I will to get what I want.”

  “Lucy . . .” Knock-Out raised a hand, tugging at her sleeve. “You don’t have to be so . . .” His voice was weak, and his clothes hung on him.

  “You shut up. This is important.”

  Gus said, “She’s right, Knock-Out. This has to happen, if not for you, for everyone else. This will happen more and more often, every year.”

  Knock-Out let his hand fall back in his lap.

  “So what’s it gonna be, Joblo?”

  The requisition was granted.

  There’s something going on here I don’t understand.

  MINUTES OF THE POWER & LIGHT COMMITTEE

  DATE: May 25, 2018

  TIME: 5:00 PM

  PLACE: Command Tent B

  Present: Chairman Joblownski, Engineer Richards, Engineer Broadsword, Co-chair Gus Ingersol, Keb Motiel, Dina

  Secretary: Barbara Dinews

  ITEM: Amperage from prop gennies is enough to keep boat ramp elevator batteries charged but not much else. Needed: more props (or larger ones affixed to permanent housing), gears, the machinery of electrification (see addendum provided by Engineer Richards). Especially needed are more car/truck batteries.

  PROPOSAL: Scavenge expedition to Helman & Son should provide Bridge City with enough large truck/heavy equipment batteries for more wattage and usage. Electrical lighting. Engineer Broadsword mentioned needing refrigeration units for the winter when game becomes scarce and foraging becomes more problematic and strung farther afield. I heartily concurred, having spent my time in the kitchens. Movies for general populace were requested. (Morale issues were brought up and then tabled by Co-chair Ingersol, to be discussed in Morale Committee Mtg.)

  PROPOSAL: Gus wants to make an attempt to restart the dam works, bringing large-scale electricity back to this whole region. Most committee members were a bit dismayed by the idea, which would involve fortifying a permanent outpost there, cutting numerous outgoing electrical lines. And a turn-off expedition, which would involve going into homes where closeted zombies might be hiding. It was agreed that there would be casualties.

  Gus, playing devil’s advocate to his own idea, pointed out that, tactically, it would weaken our position, having two locations to guard. However, after 9/11, the dam was fortified by the Feds to prevent terrorist attack, so that should lessen some of the workload. However, the zeds aren’t quite terrorists. But everyone knows that the slavers are coming. Sometime.

  Heavy debate followed.

  PROS: What is there to say? Electricity. Civilization. Higher standard of living.

  CONS: Weaker tactical position. Joblownski pointed out a reliance on technology that will eventually die unless we can, in the next few years, procreate madly and ship all the rug rats off to MIT at the age of four. Otherwise, we’re looking at wearing loincloths in twenty years. He gave an extensive speech about how knowledge has been lost and how it will take a millennium to regain it unless we take chances. We need to find more people. Phrases and words to define for later meetings: Biomass. Reciprocity. War of attrition. Scalable education. Renewable technology. Feudal states.

  MOTION: Not really a motion. Joblo and Gus ignored us all, chatted for a while about the difficulties of reclaiming the dam, and then planned an expedition for tomorrow with Keb, Broadsword. When reminded that they needed a majority in committee to assign community resources, they laughed. Gus asked, “Should my mom start charging for her services? Should Joblo? For that matter, should I?”

  I responded that Doc Ingersol and Joblo were a doctor and an engineer, respectively.

  Joblo informed me that Bridge City, the gennies, the murderholes, the dock, the garden—well, most of what makes Bridge City what it is—were all Gus’s ideas initially. All news to me. Explains why Keb sticks to him like a bodyguard. I just thought he was a cutie. Didn’t know he was a brainiac. Assumed it was his mother calling the shots.

  Was a cutie, should repeat. His face is sorta lopsided now, and, well . . . the missing hand is disconcerting . . .

  ROLL CALL VOTE (not like it matters)

  AYE: Joblownski, Richards, Broadsword, Ingersol, Motiel, Dinews (yes, I’m making them give me a vote, even though I vote along)

  NAY: None

  ABSTAIN: Nickerson

  VOTE: 6–0–1

  MINUTES OF THE HOUSING, GARDENING & ZONING COMMITTEE

  DATE: June 11, 2018

  TIME: 8:00 AM

  PLACE: Garden

  Present: Chairwoman Dr. Ingersol, Co-chair Dina Matthews, Engineer Richards, Citizens Hattie (last name unknown), Gus Ingersol, Keb Motiel, and Knock-Out

  Secretary: Myself, Barbara Dinews

  PERSONAL ITEM: Nobody has ever asked for any of the minutes to these meetings we keep having. It’s becoming obvious that this is just a journal I’m keeping that could, at any time, be looked at by whoever wants to. I never thought that the end of the world would finally make a blogger of me, but there it is. This Underwood is pretty neat. Once Joblo showed me how to thread ribbon and set me up with a table in the command tent, I’ve been clacking away. Other than cooking, scrubbing pots, and planting seedlings, it’s something for me to do. It’s obvious by now that Wallis (who doesn’t seem to want to attend any meeting), Doc Ingersol, Knock-Out, and Gus are the real players at Bridge City. Joblo is like a mad professor. The rest of us are just here to observe what the Big Four decide for us.

  I’ve got to be honest. That kind of frightens me, four people running our lives. But between them, they’ve got it worked out, I must say. I’ve never seen anyone argue more viciously than Knock-Out and Wallis, or Gus and Knock-Out, or Doc Ingersol and Wallis or . . . well, you get the point. I can tell they’re not in some weird power play. You’ll hear them talking and then, all of a sudden, Doc will stop, turn her body a little at an angle to the speaker, and say, “Is that right? Well, here’s points 1, 2, and 3 that go against what you’re saying.” Then it’ll be on. Big argument. I say argument, which it is, but it’s obvious they’re all enjoying the debate. And it’s never personal. They attack each other’s ideas. They don’t attack each other.

  Doc Ingersol usually wins. I guess that means she’s the boss lady.

  And that makes it okay, I think, that, like it or not, they’re our leaders.

  PROPOSAL: Not much discussed, though someone suggested composting zombies for the gardens. Doc Ingersol mentioned how much disease can come from a single dead body. Knock-Out pointed out that, in essence, we’d be eating our own dead, which sickened most of us, except for Gus, who laughed. “They eat us! It’s only fair.” Keb shook his head and made crazy motions around his ear.

  It’s weird that Gus doesn’t have a right hand anymore. He gestures with it like it’s there. And, honestly, I can see his hand there; I know what gesture he’s trying to make.

  Keb told the women at the fire circle that the slavers crucified Gus on a traffic sign. That they chopped off his fingers and then drilled a hole in his hand and put rope through it to string him up.

  It’s kinda hard to believe that someone could do that to another person. And Gus is different now. He can’t look me in the eyes.

  I wish I hadn’t kissed that guitar player.

  MINUTES OF THE ZED DISPOSAL & TRACKING COMMITTEE

  DATE: July 18, 2018

  TIME: 11:00 AM

  PLACE: Command Tent

  Present: Chairwoman Ingersol, Co-chair Gus Ingersol, Co-chair Quentin Wallis, Co-chair Jim
Nickerson (Knock-Out), Engineer Joblownski, Citizens Hattie, Keb Motiel, and the general populace

  Secretary: Barbara Dinews

  ITEM: Zombie accoutrements, IDs from wallets namely, have been found from as far away as Nashville and Denver. This means they’re migrating. A discussion followed about the possibility that clusters in excess of 100 or more might batter our city gates. Joblownski assures us that the murderholes can accommodate much larger numbers, but closing the currently manual double doors will be problematic. However, now that there is minimal electrical power, he could jury-rig winches that could open and close the steel doors even if zeds were in the way.

  Gus and Wallis pushed preparing for the worst, which would be thousands of undead at the gates. This could conceivably happen, since we’ve been seeing more extended damilies and what the outriders are calling mega-damilies on the move.

  However, right now, Joblownski assures us we are safe. He reminded us all that with the recollection of the large stores of chain-link fencing from Ozark, we’re beginning to establish concentric rings of chain-link fencing, and he’s designed multiple levels of murderholes, funneling all the migrant revenants toward the master murderhole. He displayed his designs on graph paper. They seem logical, though I have doubts they will hold—just chain-link fencing—if a mega-damily of a thousand or more comes battering.

  Joblownski (and Gus and Wallis) argued we should focus our attention on the slavers who will be coming. He insists on another reconnoiter as to their position. Wallis tabled the discussion, wanting to keep that private for the moment.

  This makes me nervous.

  ITEM: To date, we have harvested two hundred pounds of silvered, gilded teeth. We have fifty or sixty pounds of change and over a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in reclaimed paper money—which is worthless except for use as kindling or toilet paper. But people like to look at the money. Some of them cry.

  MINUTES OF THE LIVESTOCK & STABLING COMMITTEE

  DATE: August 2, 2018

  TIME: 8:00 AM