by Jason Offutt
“That sounds good, boss. Colorado?”
Doug stood silently and stared into the swirling brown water, an occasional whirlpool appeared beneath the bridge.
“You still want to find someone in charge, don’t you?” Jenna asked.
Doug nodded.
“Well there is no one in charge anymore, Douglas Titus. No one. There are no planes, there are no trains, there are no goddamned breweries open.” She grabbed Terry’s half-full can and threw it off the bridge.
“Hey.”
She stood close and grabbed Doug’s head in both hands. “Nothing exists anymore. We need to go somewhere safe and hiding in the mountains sure as shit sounds better than driving into some city again.”
Doug didn’t move. Jenna slapped his shoulder. “Did you hear me?”
“The doctor said we should find people. That would be the best way to survive this thing. Find people and set up a–” He froze. Something carried through the air. Something familiar. Something Doug thought to be gone, just like Jenna said. A smile pulled across his mouth. “Yes, dear, I heard every word you said, but did you hear that?”
“What?”
The sound turned into a steady roar. It was close. Doug didn’t know where, but it was close. “What do you mean trains don’t run anymore?”
Part Two: The Bad Lands
July 29: Mayday, Kentucky
Chapter 11
A slap broke the silence of the morning. Lazarus stood in the doorway to his home and clapped an open palm on his belly again, the pop loud in the open air. He rubbed a stomach that had started to get out of control and wondered what Gwenny was going to cook for breakfast. What was there to do in paradise, but to eat and sleep, sleep and eat?
“Beautiful,” he said and stepped out of the house for his morning walk around town. “Simply beautiful.”
First he’d visit the front gate, then the garden, then the greenhouse, before heading off to the Whistlestop Café to see what magic Gwenny had created. He hoped for blueberry pancakes. Yep, blueberry pancakes and sausage. Real blueberries and sausage were getting hard to come by, but a hope’s a hope and Gwenny was full of surprises. A grin grew on Lazarus’ clean-shaven face as their weekly Saturday romp in her apartment over the post office crept through his mind. Yep, full of surprises.
Lazarus stepped into the warm, muggy morning and shut the front door behind him. He didn’t lock it. Nosiree. Nobody locked their doors in Mayday; no need. The town was solid; nothing but love and respect. Jeremy waited for him outside the door. Lazarus’ smile grew. What a good soldier.
Dew clung to the freshly cut grass they walked through; the sides of Lazarus’ black leather boots dotted with flecks of green. The town looked good, darned good. Everything green, crisp and fresh. His small, neat white house with a neat emerald lawn sat in the center of Mayday, surrounded by other small houses, some ranch, some two story, the face of one covered in ivy. Doc Thomas lived there. Not that Lazarus needed a doctor; he’d come back from the dead.
“What a glorious day, right Jeremy?” Lazarus said, patting the tall, slim man on the shoulder.
Jeremy walked beside Lazarus in silence.
Lazarus. Pretty presumptuous, but who are people to judge nowadays? You could call yourself whatever you darned well pleased. Besides, he’d earned it. A doctor prescribed him Ophiocordon because of depression; his wife had left him for her personal trainer, a woman named Lilith and the man named Tim Hardy was sad, sure. Who wouldn’t be? Finding out your wife of ten years now had six-pack abs and preferred a woman named after the Howling Demon to boot? What the heck? Of course, he was sad. The Ophiocordon made him feel better, though. Oh, so much better. So good it almost took him away, to make him a member of the Purpose, but it didn’t; it couldn’t. As Tim Hardy lay in the recovery room at some silly hospital in Louisville, he couldn’t remember the name, he realized he must be righteous; the Piper can’t take the righteous. He started calling himself Lazarus at that moment of awakening; he felt he’d earned it.
Tim woke in darkness the day he came back from the dead, sweat beaded his face in a stifling heat, the world around him a complete dark, an India ink stain his eyes couldn’t penetrate. The Piper hit Tim hard, the dizziness, the pain; he’d suddenly sat straight up in the hospital bed, blood spewed from his nose and mouth, splattering a screaming nurse and staining red the blinding white sheets of his hospital room. When? Days ago? Hours ago? Minutes? How’d I get there? Yes, of course. Tim staggered down Main Street of Mayday, beautiful Mayday, his face pink with fever. The world spun through his eyes and he collapsed on the sidewalk in front of Ace Hardware, the bag from Paulson Pharmacy spilled onto the concrete, a bottle of NyQuil he’d just purchased flew from the plastic sack and bounced into the street. Then everything went black. He woke in the hospital; a pretty blonde nurse hovered over him. Then he closed his eyes and the pretty blonde nurse was middle aged with brown hair. Was it the same person? Every time Tim closed his eyes, something new floated before his blurry eyes. Then everything was dark and it was hot. It was so hot.
In the heat, in the black stain, he became Lazarus.
Lazarus reached out to the darkness, his hands pressed against a plastic sheet. Where am I? Not the hospital, surely. Dead? Probably not, he was hungry. Dead people – real dead people – probably didn’t get hungry, at least not for a sandwich. A ham sandwich and a bottle of water; no, a gallon of water, was all he needed. Then he’d be up on his feet and could go to work back at the plastic factory. Lazarus took a deep breath, the hot, sweaty stink burned as it went in. He was in a bag. A bag. Why am I in a bag? Lazarus smiled in the darkness. A body bag. Don’t these people know who I am? The zipper was easy enough to find; it was right in front of his face. He hooked a fingernail over the top of the slider and pulled down, the zipper teeth slowly parted and a dull gray light seeped into the bag. Lazarus pulled the plastic apart with numb, rubbery arms, ripping the sticky wet material away from his face, the cool air outside the bag raised goose flesh. A dim yellow light shone over an empty examination table, the red box letters EXIT glowed behind it over a flat gray door. Other lumpy bags, some still, others twitching like they were full of snakes, lay stacked against the walls. “Hey,” Lazarus tried to scream into the dim room. “Hey.”
Nobody came. It was a morgue, after all. Lazarus – Yes, Lazarus. They thought I was dead. I rose from the dead – pulled his stiff, damp legs from the body bag and swung them over the side of the table. “Hey,” he yelled again, his voice a dry wheeze. No wonder they didn’t come. They can’t hear me; but they must hear me. They will hear me. His feet slapped on the cold, hard tile as he dropped off the table. He caught himself on the side of the metal structure, wobbly knees threatening to spill him onto the floor. “I’m coming.” His words came out in a hiss. “I’m coming to save you all.” Soft, florescent light spilled into the morgue as Lazarus pulled open the door to the hallway and stepped into the world of the living. The screams were glorious.
***
“Come on, Jeremy. Keep up,” Lazarus called behind him. Jeremy was a good boy, but a bit slow, Lazarus was certain it was only because his attention tended to wander. The walk to the front Gate was a short one for Lazarus; only three blocks from his house. The garden and the greenhouse were seven from the Gate, the Whistlestop five from that. Thank the Lord for small towns, eh? Thank the Lord? Yes, Lazarus thanked the Lord a lot.
Walter Seidel stood at the big, tin door the hunters rescued from a local barn, affixed to utility poles sunk deep into the ground at the entrance to town and held fast with concrete. Louisville Power and Light had just set up to replace all the old poles from Carlson to Mayday, stacks of the forty-foot wooden posts lined the road between the two towns. Lazarus thanked the Lord for that, too. Some Carlsoners were righteous and were living as members of the town, but most were wicked and dead. The righteous helped bring these poles back to Mayday and sink them into the ground, then string wire woven field fence three high. Sutherlands
Lumber up in Louisville had almost enough. The rest of the fence was finished with walls torn from barns the farmers didn’t use anymore. No one lived on a farm; they were all in Mayday behind the fence that circled the town like a mother’s arms. Yes, thank the Lord for small towns.
“Morning, Walter.”
The young man looked away from the fence and Route 64 that led right up to the front gate and into Mayday. A deer rifle hung over Walter’s shoulder. One sat at the feet of Gil Haply who manned the Gate with Walter. Gil snored softly in a lawn chair. “Good morning, Mr. Lazarus,” he said, a weak smile pulling at his face. His eyes shifted to Jeremy and the smile faded. “Good morning, Jeremy.”
Lazarus clapped a hand on Walter’s shoulder and squeezed tight. “How’s the outside world today?”
“Full of birds,” Walter said. “Crows and such.”
“Any people come to visit?”
Walter shook his head. “Not today.” He tapped a walkie-talkie clipped to the front pocket of his jeans. An identical one hung off Lazarus’ belt. “You’ll be the first one to know if we have company, Mr. Lazarus. I promise. The first one.”
Lazarus eased his grip, then slapped Walter on the back. “I know I will. Good work, son.” He rubbed his belly again. There’d better be pancakes. “Anything to report?”
Walter shrugged. “I saw a cow. Wandered down Route 64 about five in the morning, then meandered into the Johnson’s pasture over there,” he said, pointing to a green patch of tall grass a quarter mile down the highway between two stretches of trees, a white farm house and big red barn sat further back on the property. “I would have gotten it,” he said, patting the butt of his rifle, “but I didn’t want to wake anybody.”
Lazarus nodded. “Understandable. The righteous need their sleep. But if you see that thing again, put a bullet in it. I haven’t had a steak in a long time. A long time.” He tugged at the sleeve of Jeremy’s blue plaid shirt. “Come on, boy. Miles to go before we eat.”
***
Lazarus wanted to punch George Stanley in the head, which made him squirm a bit on the soft gray couch. Not a righteous thought from such a righteous man. Stanley sat next to him on the “Good Morning America” set, bright, hot lights making Lazarus sweat. He waited through the last commercial break, watching stagehands help some ridiculous chef in one of those tall, white hats prep lobster on a set adjacent to the raised circle where he sat. Under all that heat, the lobster would be as safe to eat as spoonfuls of manure. Lazarus’ stomach rolled.
The floor director signaled Stanley; his smile was blinding. “And welcome back to ‘Good Morning America.’ With us this morning is Mr. Tim Hardy, a plastic factory worker from the small town of Mayday, Kentucky. You’re lucky to be here, Mr. Hardy,” the show’s host said, not calling him Lazarus at all. Georgie boy turned toward the red light atop Camera Three, his eyebrows pinched in faux concern. “In early May, a doctor prescribed Ophiocordon for Mr. Hardy who suffered from depression.” Stanley turned back toward Lazarus, the lights drawing great pools of sweat underneath Lazarus’ funeral-and-wedding suit. Holy, moly. “Ophiocordon is being blamed for a rash of deaths around the country. Some of those victims have come back to life in a semi-vegetative state in what some people are calling the Zombie Virus. But in this case, that didn’t happen. What exactly did happen to you, Mr. Hardy?”
A bead of sweat broke on Lazarus’ temple and trickled down the side of his face. Geez, it’s hot. Stanley looked as cool as a high schooler thinks he is. “Lazarus.”
Stanley cocked his head like a little dog. A Terrier, Lazarus thought. I’m looking at a Jack Russell Terrier. “Excuse me?”
Lazarus took a drink of water from a ‘Good Morning America’ coffee mug a stagehand had shoved at him before he sat on the gray couch under those horrible, horrible lights. “Lazarus,” he said, the word thick in his mouth. “Call me Lazarus.”
Stanley didn’t try to hide his smirk. “Lazarus? As in Lazarus of Bethany? Lazarus of the Four Days?”
He’s making fun of me. He’s making fun of me on national television. And these people need to know. “Ophiocordon kills people, Mr. Stanley. It killed me.” Lazarus’ hands shook, water spilled over the side of the cup. “I came back to life.” Lazarus turned toward Camera Four, his eyes trained on the red light. He was on. He was on camera for the nation to see. He could tell his message to everyone. “I came back because I’m righteous.” He pointed a shaking finger at the camera. “The Piper is killing us; it’s killing us all. If you want to survive–”
Hands grabbed him from behind. One jerked the lavaliere microphone off his lapel, the rest pulled him off the couch and off the set as the stupid chef chopped onions like the entire dish wasn’t already prepared and sitting off camera. Before security snatched Lazarus, Camera Three trained on Stanley went live and that little Irish bastard didn’t stutter a word as security pulled Lazarus over the back of the couch. It was all one big, choreographed dance. “The man who lived,” Stanley said, his white smile never left his face. “Now we’re going to see what Chef Steve has prepared for us. Later, Colonel Gary Corson from the United States Army will join us to discuss the military’s plan for the worst-case scenario. Survival encampments in Nebraska.”
***
Tall, yellow goalposts rose from either end of the garden, the 360-feet by 160-feet plot just inside the tall, wire fence, covered from end zone-to-end zone in flowering plants. Everything from green beans, to tomatoes, to corn and strawberries grew on the field where the Terrance County Bulldogs played just last fall. Nobody in Mayday needed a football field anymore, but they needed food. Cans and boxes wouldn’t be around forever. A garden that size wouldn’t feed even a small town for long, but after the righteous inherited the Earth, the population of Mayday had taken quite a hit. Only a quarter of the town remained. The town wasn’t big, but it was strong. Lazarus meant to keep it that way.
Lazarus and Jeremy stepped onto the cinder track that circled the garden. Mayday might not need a football field, but people still used the track. Old Mac Bronson power walked past Lazarus, his white T-shirt stained with sweat in the humid morning, the temperature starting its uncomfortable climb up to probably near 90 again. “Mornin’ Lazarus,” the white-haired man said as he moved by. Mac didn’t have need for Doc Thomas either, not an ounce of fat on him. Lazarus smiled and waved at the man who’d been his Cub Scout leader years ago. He also thought maybe he needed to do a few laps around the ol’ track every once in a while, but his stomach growled and put that thought quickly to rest. Lazarus rubbed his belly and stopped at the home team bench. He propped a boot on the purple, wooden plank where Coach Martin used to gather his Bulldogs for a pregame prayer. Prayer didn’t save you, you lecher, Lazarus thought. You can’t pray to God to help you win a football game, then get caught fondling the backup quarterback in the front seat of your pickup truck and expect to be one of the righteous. Oh, no. That’s why Coach Martin is rotting in a ditch off Route 64 covered in branches and leaves.
Lacy Tomlinson stood straight when she noticed Lazarus approach; she waved. Oh, Lacy. Her daddy, Pastor Fry Tomlinson, was one of the first ones in Mayday the Piper took down, spitting blood over the communion table one Sunday morning, his life fluid mingling with the blood of Christ. Pastor Fry staggered from behind the ambo and fell off the altar onto the table, the polished wooden antique, that had sat at the base of the alter of Mayday’s United Methodist Church since 1895, tipped over, tiny plastic cups of grape juice and Goldfish crackers scattered across the tight maroon carpeting of the sanctuary. Mrs. Mulroony screamed from the back of the church. The back. Of course, she screamed from the back. This was a protestant church, nobody sat right up front where the Lord could see them; he might recognize them from the liquor store down in Albany.
Lacy came home from Murray State University in Paducah for the funeral and didn’t go back. Not for finals. Not to bring home her things. She just came home to Mayday to grieve. She met Lazarus on a Thursday; the grief
was short. You know what they say about pastor’s kids.
Lacy’s hair, tied in a ponytail, lay draped across her right shoulder. She leaned against her hoe, a hip cocked toward him. The front of Lazarus’ underwear grew tight; Gwenny was a surprise every Saturday, Lacy was a predictable Thursday, but Lazarus liked predictable, too. Is it Thursday yet?
“Good morning, Lacy.” His voice flowed like honey. “How are our crops?”
She spread her left arm slowly open like a game show model showing contestants a refrigerator, an all-expenses paid vacation to Puerto Vallarta and a brand-new car. “Great,” she said and bit her bottom lip. “I’m taking extra special care of those lima beans, just like you asked me to.”
He grinned. “Thank you, Lacy, darlin’. This town would just dry up without you.” So would my pants. “You’re doing righteous work here, Lacy. Keep these plants alive and you keep the town alive. You remember that.”
She nodded, her ponytail bobbing like a child’s toy behind her. “I can’t forget that,” she said. “Now, you get going. I’ve got work to do.” She bent back over her hoe, then turned back to Lazarus. “And order me a sandwich when you’re down at the Whistlestop. I’m starving.”
Oh, Lacy. Lacy, Lacy, Lacy. So predictable. “Bologna’s getting scarce, but I’ll see what I can do.” He turned and left Lacy to scrape the weeds from the crops on the Bulldog football field. She paused and watched Lazarus walk away, Jeremy at his side. He didn’t see her smile melt into a grimace.
***
The pounding on the front door started the day Pastor Fry fell over the communion table. Lazarus pulled his head off a sweat-stained pillow and looked at the clock on his nightstand, the red letters flashed 12:00. Who the heck is knocking at 12-blinky-o’clock? “I’m coming,” he yelled, the words uncomfortably loud in his throbbing head. The “Good Morning America” goons – and goons they were – all but threw him into a commuter Boeing 717 airplane at JFK Airport and he landed at Louisville Regional Airport with just enough time to stop at Rite Aid to buy a bottle of Ten High bourbon and a two-liter bottle of RC Cola. He drank most of it by the time he got home, pulled himself up the stairs to his bedroom and fell onto the mostly-white cotton sheets face first. Then, sometime later, some jerk started knocking.
