The Returned

by Jason Mott

  “So how’s life between you and Jacob these days?” Bellamy asked. The question ended with a small grunt and he swung his arm and let the horseshoe fly. It hung in the air, then hit the ground with a thud, missing the stake and scoring him no points.

  It wasn’t a bad horseshoe field. Just a stretch of open ground carved out on the back side of the school between the walkways the Bureau had erected to bring in the newest arrivals to the camp.

  Things were crowding up again, even with things expanding out from the school to take in the town itself. Just when people got settled into the rhythm of life, just when they carved out a place within the city for themselves—whether it be in a tent planted in one of the lawns or, if they were lucky, bunked in one of the town’s houses that the Bureau was using to fill the need—more people came in. Things got tighter. More complicated. Just a week ago one of the soldiers had gotten into a fight with one of the Returned. Nobody was ever able to get a clear answer on what it was over—something trivial was the only thing everyone agreed on—but it had resulted in a bloodied nose for the soldier and a black eye for the Returned.

  Some people were sure that this was just the start.

  But Harold and Agent Bellamy steered clear of such things. They only watched it happening around them and tried not to get carried away by it. Playing horseshoes helped.

  Often, as the two men stood alone playing at their game, they would see Returned and True Living being marched in, one after the other, looking sullen and afraid.

  “We’re doing okay,” Harold replied. He took a pull on his cigarette, planted his feet and took his turn. The horseshoe clinked against the metal stake.

  Up above, the sun was bright, the sky clear and blue. It was beautiful enough, Harold sometimes thought, to let him believe he and the young Bureau man were nothing more than a pair of friends winding away a summer afternoon. Then the wind would shift and the stench of the camp would wash over them and would bring with it thoughts of the sad state of their environment, thoughts of the sad state of the world.

  Bellamy took his turn. He missed the stake again, scoring no points. He removed his tie just as a small group of Returned were being led through the walkway from Processing into the main part of the school. “You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff that’s going on out there,” he said after the procession had passed.

  “I can hardly believe what’s going on in here,” Harold said. “As for what’s going on out there, I might believe it more if we actually had a television and were allowed to watch it.” Harold took a drag on his cigarette. “Spending your life on nothing but gossip and hearsay isn’t any way to stay informed.” He threw his horseshoe. It landed perfectly.

  “That wasn’t my decision,” Bellamy said in that New Yorker speed of his. The two men began the walk to collect their horseshoes. Harold was ahead by seven points. “The colonel made the call,” Bellamy said. “And, quite frankly, I can’t even say it was his decision. It was those elected officials in Washington that decided to take the television and newspapers out of the centers. It didn’t have anything to do with me. It’s all above my pay grade.”

  “Well, now,” Harold replied. He collected his horseshoes, turned on his heel and took his throw. It landed perfectly. “Isn’t that convenient?” he said. “And I suppose that next you’ll say that it wasn’t even the politicians’ fault, either. It was the American people. After all, they elected them into office. They’re the ones who put them there to make those types of decisions. It doesn’t have any bearing on you, right? You’re just a part of a much larger machine.”

  “Yes,” Bellamy said with no commitment. “Something like that.” He took his turn, finally hooking the stake. He grunted some modest celebration.

  Harold shook his head. “This is all heading toward trouble,” he said.

  Bellamy did not reply.

  “And how’s that colonel getting along?”

  “He’s fine. Just fine.”

  “Terrible shame about what happened to him. What almost happened to him, I mean.” Harold took his throw. Another perfect one. More points.

  “Yeah,” Bellamy said. “Still can’t quite figure out how that snake got into his room.” He tossed and missed, but partly because he wanted to laugh.

  They continued their game in silence for a while, just living below the sun like the rest of the world. Even though there were more people in Arcadia now than there ever should have been, more people than Agent Bellamy could ever hope to interview or counsel—which had become his primary job now that the colonel was in charge of the security and overall running of the camp—he always kept his appointments with Harold. He had given up interviewing Jacob.

  “So tell me about the woman,” Harold said after a while. He took his throw. Not a bad one, but not perfect, either.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

  “The old woman.”

  “I’m still a little unclear.” Bellamy tossed and missed the stake by leagues. “Turns out there are a lot of old women in this world. There’s a theory floating around that, over a long enough timeline, all women will become old women. It’s really a revolutionary thought.”

  Harold laughed.

  Bellamy tossed, hissing when it went even more terribly wide than his previous one. Then he walked down to the other end of the horseshoe pit without waiting for his opponent. He rolled up his sleeves. Still, somehow, in spite of all the heat and humidity, he was not sweating.

  After watching him for a moment, Harold finally followed.

  “Okay,” Bellamy said. “What would you like to know?”

  “Well, you told me that you had a mother once. Tell me about her.”

  “She was a very good woman. I loved her. What else is there to tell?”

  “I think you said she hadn’t returned.”

  “That’s right. My mother is still dead.”

  Bellamy looked down at his legs. He brushed a patch of dust from his pants and looked at the heavy horseshoes clutched in his hand. They were filthy. His hands were filthy. Then he saw that it wasn’t just that one spot of dirt on his suit pants; they were covered in dust and grime. How had he not noticed that?

  “She died slowly,” he said after a moment.

  Harold puffed quietly on his cigarette. Another group of Returned were led through the corridor near where the men were going about their game. They watched the old man and the agent.

  “Any other questions for me?” Bellamy eventually said. He straightened his back—ignoring the grimy state of his suit—and his arm went stiff as he swung and took his toss. It missed the mark completely.

  John Hamilton

  John sat in handcuffs between a pair of imposing soldiers the entire time the two men in the office argued.

  The black man in the well-cut suit—“Bellamy” was his name, John suddenly remembered—had been ending one of their interviews when Colonel Willis entered the room with the two large soldiers who promptly handcuffed John. The entire group marched through the building toward the colonel’s office as if someone had just been caught cheating on their math test.

  “What’s this about?” John asked one of the soldiers. They politely ignored him.

  Bellamy came out of the colonel’s office, walking fast with his chest pushed out in front of him. “Let him go,” he barked to the soldiers. They looked at each other. “Now,” he added.

  “Do as he says,” the colonel said.

  When John was uncuffed, Bellamy helped him up and led him away from the colonel’s office.

  “Be sure we understand each other,” the colonel said before they turned the corner.

  Bellamy said something under his breath.

  “Was it something I did?” John asked.

  “No. Just come with me.”

  They passed out of the building and into the sunlight. People buzzed about like ants below the clouds and wind. “What’s this all about? What did I do?” John asked.

  Before long they ca
me to a tall, lanky soldier with red hair and freckles. “No!” the man said in a hard, low voice when he saw Bellamy and John approaching.

  “Last one,” Bellamy said. “You’ve got my word on it, Harris.”

  “I don’t give a shit about your word,” Harris replied. “We can’t keep doing this. We’re going to get caught.”

  “We already have.”

  “What?”

  “We’ve been caught, but nothing can be proven. So this is the last one.” He motioned to John.

  “Can I ask what we’re talking about?” John said.

  “Just go with Harris,” Bellamy replied. “He’ll get you out of here.” He reached into his pocket and extracted a large fold of money. “It’s all I’ve got left, anyhow,” he said. “This is the last one whether I like it or not.”

  “Shit,” Harris said. He obviously did not want to do it, but he also obviously did not want to turn down the sweaty pile of money, either. He looked at John. “Last one?”

  “Last one,” Bellamy said, stuffing the money into Harris’s hand. Then he patted John on the shoulder. “Just go with him,” he said. “I would have done more, if I’d had more time,” Bellamy said. “For now, all I can do is get you out of here. Try Kentucky if you can. It’s safer than most places.” Then he left and the light of the summer sun fell around him.

  “What was that all about?” John asked Harris.

  “He probably just saved your life,” Harris said. “The colonel thinks you were about to be propositioned.”

  “Propositioned by whom? To do what?”

  “At least this way,” Harris said, counting the wad of money in his hand, “you’re not around, but you’ll still be alive.”

  Fourteen

  HAROLD SAT ON his cot looking down at his feet and generally being grumpy.

  Damned August.

  Damned cough.

  Jacob and Patricia Stone slept on their cots. Jacob’s brow was shiny with sweat, the old woman’s dry—she was always complaining of being cold, somehow, in spite of the way the humidity smothered everything like a wet towel.

  Through the window above his cot, Harold could hear people talking and moving about. Some of them were soldiers, but most of them weren’t. The inmates of this particular prison had long ago come to outnumber the keepers. The number of people at the school was probably in the thousands by now, Harold thought. It was hard to keep track.

  Outside Harold’s window a pair of men talked in hushed tones. Harold held his breath and thought of standing to hear better, but decided against it, not trusting the sturdiness of the cot. So he only listened and caught little other than the sounds of frustration and whispering.

  Harold shifted on his cot. He placed his feet on the floor and stretched quietly. Then he stood and stared up at the window, hoping to catch more of the conversation—but those damned fans were still droning like a bushel of giant bees in the hallway.

  He slipped his itchy feet into his shoes and started out into the school.

  “What’s wrong?” a voice asked from the dimness behind him. It was Jacob.

  “I’m just going out for a walk,” Harold said softly. “Lie down and get some rest.”

  “Can I come?”

  “I’ll be right back,” Harold said. “Besides, I need you to take care of our friend.” He nodded at Patricia. “She can’t be left alone. And neither can you.”

  “She won’t know,” Jacob said.

  “What if she wakes up?”

  “Can I go?” the boy repeated.

  “No,” Harold said. “I need you to stay here.”

  “But why?”

  From outside the school there came the sound of heavy vehicles moving along the road, the sound of soldiers, their guns rattling.

  “Marty?” the old woman said, pawing at the air as she woke. “Marty, where are you? Marty!” she called out.

  Jacob looked over at her. Then he looked back at his father. Harold wiped his mouth with his hand and licked his lips. He patted his pocket but could find no cigarette. “Okay,” he said, coughing a little. “I guess if we’re all destined to be up we may as well head out as a team. Take whatever you don’t want stolen,” Harold said. “More than likely this is the last time we’ll be able to sleep in here. By the time we come back, we’ll be homeless. Or cotless, I suppose.”

  “Oh, Charles,” the old woman said. She sat up on her cot and slid her arms into a thin jacket.

  Before they turned the first corner, a group of people made their way into the now-vacant art room and began settling in.

  Being able to live in the art room and not be crowded in quite as badly as everyone else was the best thing Bellamy had been able to do for Harold, Jacob and Mrs. Stone. Bellamy and Harold had never talked about it, but Harold was smart enough that he knew who to thank.

  Now that they were walking away from it, into the unknown, Harold couldn’t help but wonder if he was committing a betrayal of some sort.

  But there was nothing to be done about it now.

  * * *

  The air outside was humid and dense. Off in the east the sky was beginning to break into the dawn. Harold looked down at his watch and realized that it was morning now. He’d stayed awake the entire night.

  There were trucks and soldiers shouting instructions. Jacob reached up and took his father’s hand. The old woman stepped closer to him, as well. “What’s going on, Marty?”

  “I don’t know, love,” Harold said. She put her arm around his and trembled slightly. “Don’t worry,” Harold said. “I’ll take care of you both.”

  When the soldier came over Harold could make out how young he was, even in the dim glow of the early morning. Barely eighteen. “Come with me,” the boy-soldier said.

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  Harold was worried that there might have been a riot breaking out. There was a pressure that had been building in Arcadia in the past few weeks. Too many people held against their will in too tight of a space. Too many of the Returned wanted to get back to their lives. Too many of the True Living sick of seeing the Returned treated like creatures instead of people. Too many soldiers caught up in the middle of something bigger than they were. To Harold, it seemed a foregone conclusion that this might all suddenly end badly.

  People can only be expected to endure a thing for so long.

  “Please,” the soldier said, “just come with me. We’re moving everyone.”

  “Moving us where?”

  “Greener pastures,” the soldier said.

  Just then, from the direction of the gate leading into the school, came the sound of someone yelling. Harold thought he recognized the voice. They all turned and, even though it was some distance away and the light of the morning was still dim, Harold could make out Fred Green standing chest to chest with one of the guards at the front gate. He was shouting and pointing his finger like a madman, getting all the attention he could, it seemed.

  “What the hell is that?” the soldier standing with Harold said.

  Harold sighed. “Fred Green,” he said. “Most likely trouble.”

  The words had hardly been said when what sounded like a mob came barreling out from the interior of the schoolhouse. There were twenty-five to thirty people, Harold guessed, running and shouting, some of them shoving to get soldiers out of their way. They were coughing and screaming. A thick, white smoke was beginning to billow out of the doorway and out of some of the windows.

  At the back of the crowd, in the direction of the smoke and shouting, coming closer to the door through which everyone was scrambling, was a muffled voice shouting, “We stand for the living!”

  “Holy hell,” Harold said. He looked back in the direction of the front gate. All the soldiers were racing about, everyone trying to understand what was happening.

  Fred Green had disappeared.

  Likely as not, Harold thought, this was all his doing to begin with.

  All of a sudden Marvin Parker emerged from the school, from the
cloud of smoke. He wore work boots, a gas mask, and a T-shirt that said LEAVE ARCADIA written in what looked like Magic Marker ink. He tossed a small, green metal canister onto the ground back toward the door of the school. After a second, it made a popping sound and white smoke began shooting out. “We stand for the living!” he shouted again, his voice somewhat garbled by the gas mask.

  “What’s going on?” Mrs. Stone asked.

  “Come on here,” Harold replied, pulling her away from the mass of people.

  The young soldier he’d just been speaking to had already dashed off toward the crowd—his rifle at the ready—shouting for everyone to get back.

  A pair of soldiers tackled Marvin Parker. Whatever gentleness they might have normally shown the old man was gone. He swung at them, even got in a solid punch on one of them, but that was the extent of it. They caught him around the legs and he landed with a gruesome crunch, followed by a muffled bellow of pain.

  But it was too late to stop what was happening. Everyone was already riled up. The pressure in the school had built up for too long for the Returned. They were tired of being held here, away from their loved ones. They were tired of being treated like Returned and not like people.

  Rocks and what looked like glass bottles began to fly. Harold saw a chair—probably pulled from one of the classrooms—sail through the early-morning sky and land squarely against a soldier’s head. He crumbled to the ground, clutching his helmet.

  “Dear Lord!” Mrs. Stone exclaimed.

  The three of them managed to get behind one of the trucks on the other side of the courtyard. Harold heard only yelling and cursing behind them as they ran. He waited for the sound of gunfire, waited for screams to break out.

  Harold lifted Jacob and held him wrapped tightly in one arm. He held Mrs. Stone next to his body with the other. She was weeping gently, saying, “Dear Lord,” over and over again.

  “What’s going on?” Jacob asked, his breath hot on Harold’s neck. There was terror in his voice.