The Reburialists

by J. C. Nelson

  “Luce, did I hear the door open? Are the boys back?” An older woman in her sixties came down the stairs, saw me, and froze. She looked at the BSI badge I clutched and crossed her arms. “Who do we have here?”

  “Grace Roberts, ma’am.” I wasn’t raised to call anyone ma’am or sir, but it worked for Brynner and seemed to be normal around here. “I work with Brynner.”

  “She’s one of his friends,” said Luce, with more venom than a nest of cobras.

  I didn’t care for the way she spoke about Brynner, and leveling that stare at me almost constituted an act of war. “Coworker. Not companion.”

  Luce looked down at the baby on her hip and shook her head. “I’m going to put Junior down for a nap. Ms. Grace here wants to know where he is.” She stomped up the stairs, like each stair were Brynner’s crotch.

  I couldn’t hold the sigh in.

  The elder Hughes hugged me. “Don’t let her bother you. Luce is good in her own way. And so is—”

  The door flew open, and Brynner stumbled in, soaked to the bone. Outside, hail clattered on the front porch, followed by a wall of rain like a shower curtain of gray. He grabbed the table and leaned over it, resting on his arms. “We got it.”

  Behind him, a man at least Brynner’s height and twice his weight followed, looking like he’d gone for a swim in his clothes. “You shoulda seen him, Mom. Classic Carson. Put the meatskin down with barely a scratch.”

  Barely a scratch? A river of red ran down Brynner’s scalp, from a cut on his head. His shirt clung to his skin, tracing the ripple of every muscle as he breathed in and out. He raised his head, catching his breath—and saw me. “Grace? What are you doing here?”

  I opened my mouth to answer, and the air crackled, snapping like static electricity. A split second later, a roll of thunder like a bomb shook the house, and the lights went off. Above us, the baby wailed.

  I grabbed the silence like a life jacket. “I need to talk to you about the journals. Now. We can go to my car, unless you’d like to have the conversation in the rain.”

  Brynner put his head down on the table. “Can it wait until after dinner?”

  The air snapped as lightning struck, followed by a rolling echo of thunder.

  “Of course it can,” said the older woman. “Grace Roberts, pull up a chair beside your man and I’ll get a bowl of stew. You don’t need much light to stick a spoon in your mouth.” She raised her voice. “Luce, you coming to dinner?”

  I stifled the urge to set her right, and instead took a seat beside Brynner, who dripped puddles onto the floor. Once the bowls were handed out, the conversation died to an absolute minimum. I can’t say what the others were doing, only that I’d forgotten how good beef stew could taste.

  Once Brynner and the tall man, Rory, put away three bowls each, the conversation picked up. They laughed and argued about who’d seen the co-org first and how many times Brynner stabbed it.

  Luce, on the other hand, spent her time attempting to turn Brynner to stone with her gaze. If looks dug holes, Brynner would have sported a full golf course.

  A lull in the rain prompted Brynner to stand up and push his bowl to the center of the table. “I’ll do some dishes tomorrow morning, Mrs. Hughes. Mr. Hughes, you still looking for help?”

  The old man nodded. “As I recall, farmwork don’t take to you much.”

  Brynner shrugged. “I’ve never had a tiller try to strangle me. Grace, you wanted a word?”

  I followed him out onto the porch. The skies still poured out like an overflowing bathtub, and the wind drove rain at an angle all the way to the door.

  He pointed to the barn. “Ladder’s inside. Run for the door, climb the ladder.”

  Without waiting, he ran. I hesitated, then sprinted through the downpour, into the dark barn.

  “Up here.” Brynner’s voice called from the top of an iron ladder. “Come on, it’s not a hay loft.”

  When I pushed the trapdoor at the top of the ladder, it opened to a carpeted apartment, easily the size of mine in Portland. Thick insulation made the driving rain sound like a soft patter. Through oval windows at each end, lightning strikes lit the whole apartment like camera flashes.

  I rubbed a hand down the wall, feeling the wallpaper texture. “I thought wooden when you said barn. This is amazing.” Brynner grinned. “The old one burned down in an accident. I sort of set it on fire. Turn around.”

  “Why?”

  He took off his sopping wet shirt and threw it to the side. “Because I want to change, and I don’t trust you not to peek.”

  I let his jab go in favor of a better one. “And the younger Mrs. Hughes? Did you set her on fire, too?”

  BRYNNER

  The awkward just never ended with this woman. “Can we just agree that if a woman in this town looks at me angry, I did something with her at some point? Please? It will save you time and me embarrassment.”

  Grace almost smiled. “No. It’s about the only entertainment in this town. Outside of driving up to the quarry.”

  I almost choked. I’d hoped that Grace wouldn’t have to know about that. “Turn around for real this time.”

  She complied, and I got dressed faster than any of my many hotel-room escapes. Once I was decent, I lit a lantern and rummaged through my bag, looking for a shirt. “You want to talk journals.”

  “Among other things.” Grace paced the length of the barn. “I called our field command on your phone.”

  Oh, what I would have given to be a fly on Dale’s wall. “And how many microseconds did it take before recruiting called back? Could you hold your breath longer?”

  “The director called me. She wants to recall me to Portland.” A nervous edge ran through Grace’s voice, and she jumped every time thunder shook the building.

  “I’m sorry. You said it yourself: You weren’t cut out for fieldwork. So take your Deliverator and your badge and go be the hero of the Portland office. Most people leave the field with trophies sewn into them.”

  The set of Grace’s jaw, the way her eyes narrowed told me her answer before she spoke. “I can’t leave.” She looked up, the lantern light making the shadows under her eyes dark black. I knew the look. Weeks of not sleeping. “I need this job. I need the field pay.”

  “Why?”

  She clenched her fist and turned away. “I have a bunch of bills I need to pay, and this job will let me do it. I spoke to Director Bismuth.”

  Poor Grace. The director wasn’t fun to deal with on a good day. I felt bad for her having to deal with the mess I’d made. “I’m sorry.”

  She took two steps closer, out of the lantern light. So close I could smell her perfume, and beneath it, the scent of her skin. “I need your help with the journals.”

  That might have been the worst thing she could have said. “Brynner, you’re very attractive.” Or “Brynner, I know I shouldn’t.” Those were phrases I knew by heart. Dad and his damned journals. “I don’t read hieroglyphics the way you do. I know how to write rooster, donkey, dog, and cat. Oh, and shitty. Which is about right for my translation skills.”

  “I’ll do the reading, thank you. But reading co-org-affected ideographs isn’t just about symbols and words. At least, that’s only the bottom layer. Think of it like a pyramid. The symbols, the sounds, those are the bottom. On top of that, we have sentences. On top of sentences, meaning.”

  She spoke in circles, losing me. Or maybe it was her eyes. I stood a better chance of staring at her breasts and remembering what she said than looking into those eyes. “You lost me.”

  She laughed and jumped at the same time, thanks to a thunderclap. “There are different levels to their meanings. It happens in all languages. Ask me a question I’ll say no to.”

  I knew exactly what I wanted to ask, and exactly what she’d say. “May I kiss you, Grace Roberts?”

  Whatever answer she had ready died in her throat. She blinked at me over and over, her face slack with surprise. Her voice came out a whisper. “Sure you can.�
��

  It wasn’t the answer I expected, but it was absolutely the one I wanted, and I’d learned not to question a woman. And I did kiss her, a fleeting kiss, pressing my lips to hers for just a moment before I stepped away. I hadn’t noticed how hot the loft was, or how loud the rain against the window sounded.

  Grace turned away, walking to the window. “That was . . . sarcasm.”

  If by sarcasm, she meant “electrifying,” I couldn’t argue.

  Grace’s voice trembled when she spoke. “You can’t understand the real meaning without understanding the first two parts.” She held her hand to her mouth, looking out into the rain. “Thank you for checking on the horse. I’m sure the Donaldsons will feel better knowing the co-org isn’t going to kill another one of their livestock.”

  “Yeah— Wait. What?”

  “I need to go.” She lifted the loft door to climb down.

  Outside it still looked like God turned on a faucet. It always looked like that in the desert when it rained. “Grace, you can’t go out in that. Where did the sheriff want me to look?”

  She slipped her feet onto the ladder. “The Donaldsons’.” She pointed out the window. “And if they can go out in this, I can.”

  I sprinted to the window, where among lightning flashes and sheets of rain, four figures approached Rory’s door. The Donaldson farm was thirty minutes in the other direction. Unless someone stuck a rocket on a corpse, it couldn’t possibly have been the same one I just killed.

  A co-org at the Donaldsons’. Another at the Larsons’. A premonition, or intuition, call it what you want, I ran for the ladder, screaming over the storm, “Grace, don’t go out there.”

  She was already gone.

  Thirteen

  GRACE

  What was I thinking? What was he thinking? Were either of us thinking at all? He heard what I said when I answered the question. He knew what I really meant. I wiped the taste of man from my lips and stepped out into the rain. I had to get to my car. If the Hughes had company coming, an awkward situation would become downright unbearable.

  I fumbled with the rental keys as the visitors walked on up the stairs. Which button triggered the lock? That one. My finger slipped, hitting the alarm button, and the beeping horn rose over the wind’s wail. I unlocked and opened the door right as a bolt of lightning lit the world.

  Illuminating dead faces on the Hugheses’ visitors.

  One by one, they lurched toward me, the flashing headlights of my car, and the wailing siren. I dove inside, slamming the door behind me, hitting the lock as the first one smashed against the car, shaking it. Two more hit the car, pushing on the windows, stumbling into the door.

  The fourth stood at a distance, then walked over, dragging its right foot. It leaned over and looked through the window, inches from my face.

  With one finger, it tapped the window three times, in exactly the pattern I’d used on the floor in Aunt Emelia’s house.

  As it drew back its fist, I hurled myself between headrests, into the backseat. Broken glass mixed with torrential rain as the window burst open. Wrinkled fingers coated in grave dirt missed me by a hairbreadth. I leaned forward to grab the messenger bag in the front seat, and took out my Deliverator.

  The co-org stuck its head through the ruined glass, swiveling to look at me. Then its mouth opened, revealing a swollen green tongue. “Where. Is. Carson?”

  It spoke. I sat in stunned silence, unable to respond.

  It spit out a rotten tooth. “Stupid woman. Where. Is. Carson?”

  I let the Deliverator answer. I aimed low to compensate for the kick, and wound up blowing a hole through its chest. Again, I pulled the trigger, and removed half its jaw. Unlike at the restaurant in Seattle, I kept my composure, remembering how Brynner had told me every third shot would be co-org specific. Sure enough, the next bullet burned a hole through the co-org’s stomach. Even in the rain, a cloud of black smoke burst from the hole as it staggered backward. But the smoke didn’t dissipate. It funneled, like a swarm of flying insects, straight into another co-org. That one stopped pushing on the car door. Its eyes focused on me, its mouth pulled back in a grin.

  So I shot the new one, too. This time, I fired with confidence, counting toward the third bullet. The first two rounds I put into its legs, knocking it down and setting the stage for the next round to kill it.

  As I pulled the trigger, cold hands wrapped around my neck, yanking me backward, dragging me out of the car before I could even see where the cloud would go. I fought for breath while a weight like an elephant crushed down on me—

  And let go.

  The co-org behind me convulsed, a silver blade sticking out of its head. I can’t say how long it took for it to die. My focus was on the cloud spewing from its wounds, twisting back to the last corpse. Unlike the others, this one looked . . . fresh. New.

  I’d seen that man in the diner the day before, having breakfast.

  “Carson.” A different body spoke, but in exactly the same gravelly voice. “I warned you on the ship. Bring it back. Where did you hide the jar?”

  Carson flipped one of his blades end over end. “In a vault in BSI headquarters. You might have heard of it. Salt dome, surrounded by an underground river. You should visit some time.”

  It chuckled. “You lie. We have seen everything in the vault. It’s not there.” Then it stepped toward me.

  Brynner countered each step, backing it away. “I’ve been known to lie from time to time. Then again, you want me to believe you’ve been inside the vault? Who else is telling tall tales?”

  It leaped up onto the hood of my car, just out of his reach, and counted off on broken fingers. “A piece of the cross. A blessed blade from the Crusades. The bones of a saint. Two tons of weapons grade plutonium. Shall I go on?”

  I didn’t see Brynner move; he was swinging the blade so fast the edges shone with a golden blur.

  The co-org moved every bit as fast as he did. Maybe faster, dodging every blow. “You’re getting slow.”

  Brynner sliced across it, severing a finger. Black smoke bled from it, swirling about the co-org like a whirlwind. It came at Brynner with the fury of a wounded beast. How he could react, how he could dodge or counter it, I couldn’t say.

  One blow landed, sending Brynner into the mud. I leaped for the car, where my Deliverator sat on the seat. When I turned around, the co-org was on Brynner.

  It reached down with hands that ended in bloody red fingernails. “You’re still wounded, lesser Carson. Back on the island, I believe I cut you right about—”

  I fired from a kneeling position so the bullet wouldn’t pass through and hit Brynner. The co-org stumbled forward, then rolled to the side and spun. My next bullet went wide, or maybe I shot straight and it just moved faster than me.

  Leaving Brynner, it started back toward me. “You can die first, translator. You should have hidden in the house and read the old man’s books. Now I’ll wear you around like a cheap suit.”

  I’d been close to the co-orgs in our labs. Mindless machines, without direction or purpose. This one knew what I did, and who I was. I’d heard field team stories but not seen proof of Re-Animus intelligence. Until now.

  The roar of a shotgun split the night, throwing the monster facedown into the mud. I added my own bullets, squeezing the trigger until long after the chamber clicked empty. Brynner rolled over, crawled on his knees to the co-org, and drove a blade though the co-org’s body.

  It exploded, smoke gushing from its mouth until the corpse stiffened and went still.

  “Did I get him?” Rory chambered another shell and blasted at point-blank range. The splatter of flesh and blood covered me, red blood staining the mud. He bent over and took me by the hand, hauling me up the porch, into the kitchen.

  Lucy Hughes watched from the window with terror-filled eyes. “What was that? It spoke.”

  “I don’t know.” I looked to Brynner as he came in the door.

  He dripped into a chair. “That’s a Re
-Animus.”

  I tried to fit this into my view of the world, and failed. “Four of them?”

  He laughed. “Just one. How many did you need?”

  BRYNNER

  Everyone did this. Those that lived long enough to encounter a Re-Animus did. They could talk about corpse organisms and categorize them by stage of decomposition and physiological changes. But meeting one that knew you by name blew the training courses out the window.

  This one knew Grace.

  And knew, if my memory was right, the contents of the innermost vaults.

  I should have been more worried about the vaults.

  Rory looked out the window at the easing storm. “I’m going to run the perimeter. Make sure there aren’t any more out there.” He started toward the door.

  I shook my head. “There aren’t. The clouds of evil go to the nearest host. Those dispersed. If there’d been a host within half a mile, we could’ve followed them.”

  The power flickered on, and Grace stood. “I need to make a call or two.”

  “To field command?”

  She nodded.

  An image of the war room swarming with analysts working through the night flashed through my mind. I hadn’t even made it a day and I missed it. “Tell them Vault Zero is compromised. Tell them everything.”

  She blinked, then frowned. “You aren’t going back? This is huge. Multiple witnesses confirming the Re-Animus intelligence. We’ve read reports, but only from one person at a time, and frankly, most field ops are . . . a little out-there. There won’t be any disputing this now.”

  I knew what needed to happen. I had no problem doing it. “No. Congratulations. You and Dr. Egghead can discuss it at length.”

  I looked over to Rory. “Thanks for the offer, but I think it would be best if I moved on. Those things show up everywhere I go. I’d rather not be responsible for someone else getting killed.”