This Dark Earth

by John Hornor Jacobs

  PLACE: South Gate

  Present: Chairman Gus Ingersol, Co-chair Quentin Wallis, Co-chair Lucy Ingersol, Engineer Joblownski, Keb Motiel, and the general populace

  Secretary: Myself, Co-chair Barbara Dinews

  ITEM: Knock-Out couldn’t attend the rancher’s arrival, but the rest of the Big Four were there.

  The rancher is a sour little man, raw-boned and rangy, prone to laughing too hard to hide his sadness. Somehow, he’s survived in the Ouachita Mountains for the last four years, keeping cattle and horses. He came through the outer ring of chain-link, leading the cattle, with only a few undead trailing him.

  When we brought him inside the protective ring, away from the murderholes, he pointed to a large bull—his only bull.

  “That bastard right there will trample any goddamned rev in sniffing distance. He’s meaner than the devil. Probably will trample the living too, only I’m too smart to get next to him. But keep any people away.”

  We haven’t had any real need for provisioning livestock until now—except finding food for Cookie, the stray dog that ended up at our gates. We lost a man trying to get her into the city, and so she is quite loved and becoming too fat as well. As to the livestock, Joblownski, with two assistant engineers, immediately came up with a solution.

  “We’ll pasture them on the south shore, in a ring of chain. Since the revs don’t seem attracted to cattle or horses, maybe the bull will act as an extra line of defense. I know—” He waved his hands. “I know. It’s laughable. But we should test. It’d be nice if we had three tons of roving, zombie-stomping bull to our south.”

  So we tested in one of the concentric rings guarding the southern shore, where there is ample grass and water. After the animals checked the perimeter and settled down near a large cottonwood, Joblownski and Keb went to the outer gate, unlocked and unlatched the chain door, and let in the few zombies waiting there. The bull—who Dap, the rancher, calls Satan—snorted, roused himself, and began to saunter over to the men and the undead.

  Joblo ran away, and Keb danced backward, leading the revenants inside the chain. There were only three: two men and a child. Keb brained the fastest rev with his headknocker, dropping it in its tracks, and then turned tail and ran to the inner ring, through the gate, to rejoin us. Satan chased him. Dap, his mouth full of tobacco, laughed merrily, watching as the bull stood breathing heavily behind the chain-link fence. Then a rev moaned, and the big animal wheeled and tromped off.

  It’s amazing what short work three tons of bull can make of two zombies. More were gathering on the outer ring, pawing at the chain. We considered letting them in as well, but relented. Eventually they’d find their way down the sluice-way to the murderholes, so we could keep count, harvest metals, and perform tracking.

  Dap tells the committee he knows the locations of two more ranchers keeping their cattle and people in the highlands. Maybe twenty or thirty head more cattle and fifteen or twenty more people, not including a few dogs, which the zombies will attack, strangely. Man’s best friend becomes man’s best snack.

  We, immediately and on the spot, requested Dap to outride, find the ranchers, and invite them here. We showed him the ins and outs of life on the bridge, the progress of the Tulaville reclamation, and the “great” wall that is now beginning to take shape around the neighborhood closest to the bridge.

  He agreed.

  Our little community is growing.

  MINUTES OF THE TULAVILLE RECLAMATION COMMITTEE

  DATE: August 8, 2018

  TIME: 8:00 AM

  PLACE: Command Tent A

  Present: Chairman Gus Ingersol, Co-chairwoman Ingersol, Co-chair Jim Nickerson (Knock-Out), Engineer Joblownski, Engineer Broadsword, Keb Motiel, and the general populace

  Secretary: Myself, Co-chair Barbara Dinews

  ITEM: It was with happiness mingled with sadness that Engineer Broadsword debriefed us on the events of the Ozark Galvanized Tin, or Tinman, mission.

  They recovered four tons of chain-link fencing, ten tons of bricks, unknown amounts of lumber and galvanized tin. In this, the mission should be considered a success.

  However, on the exit from Ozark they encountered an extended damily—numbering in the hundreds—which swarmed the outriders and escort vehicles. Five men were lost: Montfredi, Stevens, Wilkins, Bilyeu, and Hammond. Morale teeters, a strange mixture of delight at the new building materials and grief at the loss of the men. Montfredi is especially mourned.

  To make it worse, it seems the damily that got Montfredi is heading this way, trailing the fleeing raiders. It could be here in a couple of weeks. God, I hate to think of towheaded Montfredi shambling along with his ears flapping. (And I find this odd, the prediction of a damily battering the gates—it smacks of meteorology, which we all know is, or was, consistently inaccurate. I can’t help but think of the book Daddy always read to me when I was a girl, Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs, with food falling from the sky. God, I miss him. I imagine he didn’t make it out of the Dallas firestorm. But this new book we’re writing would be titled Sunny with a Chance of Zombies.)

  Joblownski brought out stores of his moonshine for the wake. The women of Bridge City conducted an emergency meeting and allowed the remembrance to be held at the women’s fire. Many of the men became ecstatic, it being their first time. The poor boys.

  MINUTES OF THE BRIDGE CITY SECURITY COUNCIL

  DATE: August 14, 2018

  TIME: 10:00 PM

  PLACE: Command Tent A

  Present: Chairman Gus Ingersol, Co-chairwoman Dr. Ingersol, Co-chair Jim Nickerson (Knock-Out), Co-chair Quentin Wallis, Engineer Joblownski, Engineer Broadsword, Keb Motiel, and the general populace

  Secretary: Myself, Co-chair Barbara Dinews

  ITEM: Strange to be woken by Gus. He came to my tent and scratched on the fabric. I could hear the usual moaning of revs, and it was hotter than the dickens even at night, and the cicadas were making a horrible racket, but Gus was very quiet and soft spoken. Almost hard to hear.

  “We want you to attend this meeting, Barb.” He smiled at me, remembered himself, stopped smiling, looked away toward the river, looked back, and smiled again.

  “What meeting?” I asked. I really had no clue.

  “Slavers,” was all he would say. So I made myself as presentable as possible and followed. Gus is tall and takes long strides and I had to jog, almost, to catch up. He wasn’t looking at me. He was doing whatever he could to not look at me, walking fast, staring at the river, looking at the stars, and finally, half wanting to slow him down and half wanting him to pay attention to me, I reached out and touched his arm. Unfortunately, my hand fell on his stump. It felt angry and hot.

  He stopped and looked at me.

  “Gus, I’m—” I didn’t know how to say it. “I’m sorry for what happened.”

  He laughed. A little nervously, I think, holding up his stump. “It was just a hand . . . I’ve got another. The redundancy of the human body—”

  “No, I don’t mean—” I tried again. “Not your hand, though that was . . . horrible.” I took his other hand, held it in mine. I felt his nervousness in the tension of his fingers. I dug my thumbs into the hard calluses of his palm, massaging, trying to loosen the tension there, like Dad had shown me so long ago.

  “I mean the night . . . when I danced with that other—”

  He pulled his hand away and looked at me. Hard. As intensely as only he, or his mother, can with those gray, almost animal-like eyes. Wolf’s eyes, maybe. He squinted a little and tightened his shoulders as if awaiting a blow. Even missing a hand, he’s worked shifts on the Wall, and he remains as massive and muscular as ever. Possibly the largest man in Bridge City now that Jasper is gone.

  Then he sighed, and smiled. His shoulders relaxed, and I was powerfully reminded that he is just a boy, really. Not uncertain, like any other boy I ever knew. No, not that. But inexperienced.

  He has the raw intelligence of a man. But wary. I wish I hadn’t kissed that guitar p
layer.

  “It’s nothing,” he said. He waved his missing hand in the air, and I could see the gesture he was trying to make. “Really. It’s nothing,” he said again, leaving me wondering if he was talking about our history or his hand.

  Gus might be a boy or a man. I can’t tell which. But whatever the case, he’s complicated.

  Wallis and the Doc looked up as we entered the tent, and the Doc’s eyes went back and forth between us two, maybe three, times. Knock-Out, bald now and looking for all the world like David Carradine on Kung Fu, dandled the baby on his knee. I sat by him, put my pencil and paper on the table, and made googly eyes at Ellie. Knock-Out grinned and gave her to me, and for a while, everything was all right. The dead, the living, the undead, they’re all minor problems. Holding this smiling, chubby baby is like holding your own soul, unborn, all the possibilities unexplored, all the wrong roads and mistakes untaken. She’s pink, and fat, and has cankles. She smells like love, and the world we’ve almost forgotten. She put a chubby hand on my cheek and then moved it down to my neck and tugged on my collar and explored my necklace.

  I could have stayed like that forever, holding Ellie. Maybe it’s my body telling me something. Maybe it’s the world, the scarcity of life now on this new frontier.

  Knock-Out, wasted and no longer looking like a black, burly bear, winked at me, took the baby, and walked her over to Doc Ingersol, who pulled out a breast and stuck it into Ellie’s mouth.

  Wallis stood, pointed at a map, and spoke. “Stevens, on his last run, marked the slavers’ retreat back to New Boston, where they knew they could find shelter in their old camp.” He stabbed at the map with a long finger. “They lost many of their soldiers and slaves in the retreat, but they’ve been more actively recruiting . . . if you can call it that . . . making forays into Oklahoma.”

  Wallis paused, wiped his face. It was close, still, and hot in the tent. The moans of the dead came through the tenting canvas, and the cicadas sounded even louder.

  “They’ve found a cache of fuel, it looks like, and an engineer or mechanic skilled enough to resurrect some armed transports from the Army Depot. But that’s not all.”

  Doc Ingersol, Ellie held close to her breast, said, “Don’t mess around, Wallis. Get to the bad news so we can make some decisions.”

  Wallis ground his teeth at the interruption—I know it must be hard for him, a former military man, to have a council of equals. He took a sip of water and continued.

  “All of our scouts—Stevens, Ransom, Sunseri—report more and farther-flung patrols around the Boston base. Ransom was nearly caught by one. And Sunseri, on his way south, spotted a small cluster of zeds and thought he heard a motorcycle. We have to assume they’re scouting us too.”

  Gus cleared his throat. “Um . . . Mom?”

  She smiled at him and patted the seat next to her. He walked over and sat down.

  “Do you remember our trip to Costa Rica?”

  “Yes . . . but what on earth does that have to do with why we’re here?”

  Joblownski, leaning past the silent Engineer Broadsword, waved his hand at her. “Doc, let him talk.”

  Wallis sat back down and poured himself some water from a ceramic pitcher. Joblo’s new still has reputedly been producing water as clean as bottled. I poured myself a glass. It was quite nice, but there was a hint of charcoal.

  “You remember the zip-lines we went on? Had to stand in lines for hours?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m thinking deer stands.”

  Wallis laughed. The council members have become used to Gus’s oblique way of getting to the point.

  Joblo stood, excited. “I hear you. We put them on the ridge. With the walkie-talkies I’ve managed to get to work. Sniper rifles.”

  “Hold on, everyone.” Wallis stood and walked around the table to put a hand on Gus’s shoulder.

  “Slow down and tell us what you’re talking about.”

  Gus tapped his finger on the map. “Here. This ridge. We place deer stands in the tree lines, men with scoped hunting rifles, flares, radios. Spread them out over miles.” He ran his finger along the map. I was beginning to see it.

  I began scribbling in shorthand, stopped, and asked, “But why did you mention the zip-lines?”

  He smiled at me as if he had been waiting for someone to ask that question.

  “Revs will cluster around trees or buildings where they can smell or hear the living. The zip-lines will give anyone in deer stands the ability to get away, quickly, unless they’re totally mobbed, which is unlikely.” He turned back to the map. “We dig ditches that will be hard for Bradleys to cross.”

  “They must’ve recruited some mechanic or engineer who understood the effects of the EMP enough to combat it. To repair the damaged electronics or replace them,” said Joblo.

  “These will be moats, actually. Here. Chop down miles of trees across every approaching road and train track. This will help in keeping out the zeds as well, so we can consider it a quality of life issue.”

  “Moats? It’s like we’re going medieval,” I said.

  Gus raised an eyebrow and looked at me. “We have no electricity. We live in a fortified enclosure, under siege, with guards on the walls. I’d say medieval is exactly what we are. In fact, it’s what I had in mind when I designed the bridge defenses.”

  “Oh.” I looked around the command tent and saw expressions of dawning understanding. Knock-Out just smiled. When he saw me looking at him, he winked.

  God, he looked horrible. I did my best to smile back.

  Wallis grunted, drained his water, and then said, “Okay, all that is fine and dandy, but it has nothing to do with what we’re talking about. The slavers are mobilizing. They’ll be coming for us. What are we gonna do?”

  Everyone remained silent for a while. Then Knock-Out stood, brushed his loose-fitting jeans, and spoke.

  “This bridge, this community we’re building here, right now it’s the most important thing in the world. Did you know that?” He looked around at me, at Broadsword and Joblo and Wallis. Then, coming to Doc Ingersol, he put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed.

  “After the bombs went off, and the dead rose, the televisions and radios stopped working, we were lost—Lucy, Gus, and me. But we made our way north, through the masses of living dead, and found Wallis. And together, all of us, we’ve made this community. This city. And as far as we know, it’s the only place like it in the world now, where people live free with some semblance of safety. Who knows what it’s like in California or New York or China, for that matter? We were lucky to be so remote. This is our life now.”

  He stopped and bowed his head, giving us all a good look at his newly bald skull.

  “We can’t give this up, what we’ve made.” He spoke very quietly into the stillness of the tent. “So that means we have to defend it. Or take the war to them. But we can’t run. We’ll never run.”

  There was no dissent. Wallis smacked a hand down on the table.

  “Agreed. We’ve worked too hard here and in reclaiming Tulaville to let some filthy . . . goddamned . . . slaver come take it all away from us.” The profanity, coming from Wallis, made me nervous. He’s a religious man, conducted services on Sunday. And when he said “goddamned,” the look on his face was terrifying.

  “So, I think we should do both. Take the war to them, right down their throats, like Gus and Keb did, but this time with greater purpose. More aggressively. And that means we have to muster a militia. Maybe even institute a draft.”

  “A draft will never work, so let’s take that off the table right now.” Doc Ingersol’s eyes shone bright, alarmed.

  “Why not?”

  “Okay. You’ve got a draft and my number comes up. I refuse. What are you gonna do about it?”

  “Kick you out of our community. Put you beyond the wall.”

  “Are you going to lure the revs away?”

  “No. Waste of manpower.”

  “So you’re saying you�
��re going to kill the people who refuse.”

  “No. I’m not. We’re just going to put them beyond the wall. Maybe downriver.”

  “You’ll waste the gas?”

  Wallis fell silent.

  “I thought so. You can’t kill people who refuse, otherwise we’d be the slavers.” She pulled Ellie’s mouth from her breast, covered herself, and then said, “Quentin, I think you’ll be surprised at how easy it will be to form a willing army. Everyone here is thankful for Bridge City. We’re not going to let it be taken away from us.”

  Gus coughed. “We have to take the fight to them. It’s too dangerous otherwise.”

  Wallis peered at him, and Joblo said, “What do you mean?”

  Gus held up his missing hand, and I could imagine him holding up his index finger to make a point.

  “We’re all infected,” he said. “Every one of us. And when you die, you rise.” He let that sink in. “So, if I was attacking us, I’d have snipers picking off people inside the gates, so that the general populace could be turned against itself, giving the advancing army room to maneuver. Shoot enough people, you’ve created a small force of saboteurs right in their midst.”

  “The attacking army has the same weakness,” said Wallis.

  “True. But their army isn’t confined inside walls, fences.”

  “Hell, son, it’s a risky business all around. If everyone rises, it’s a three-way running battle. There’s always another army nipping at your heels or eating away at your insides.”

  Gus nodded in agreement. “Yes. But I sure would rather be on the other side of the fence from the revs.”

  There was a pause then, and people helped themselves to more water, and Wallis shared the last of the Johnnie Walker. It went quick, but not before I managed to get a glassful.

  “So here’s the way I see it,” Wallis said. “We need to know how we’re gonna take the fight to them. Motorcycles worked once, but we lost Jasper and nearly lost Gus. I don’t want thirty-three percent of my force lost. When you’re a commander, that’s a not unreasonable expectation. We don’t have enough people to lose. So whatever ideas you have, make sure they take into account the welfare of the attacking force.” He looked around. “Understood?”