Handley’s lips pressed into a thin red line. Bathgate knew what that look meant. The man didn’t agree. He’d never see things the way the general did, which was unfortunate. Under any other circumstance, he would have been long gone by now. But Bathgate was a man of his word—if he said concessions must be made, he would have to make them, himself. He needed the legion of men under Handley’s control, so he had to compromise.
“Okay, I heard you,” he said when Handley’s mouth opened up again. “Now go wait with the others.”
As the white-haired, blue-eyed rat of a man stormed away, Pitts sidled up to the general. “They give me the creeps,” he said, still twirling his mustache
“I know.”
“I mean, I don’t get it. We got every other race of folk here, and they deal. Why can’t they deal with some coloreds, too?”
“It’s a tool, Greg. Just a tool.”
“What’s that mean?”
The general smiled, this time without teeth. “Control. Give the rank and file something to rally against, an injustice to rage about, and reinforce it. And if there’s one thing most people have in common, from the Italians to the Irish to the Germans to the Latinos to the Asians, it’s that everyone hates a nigger.”
Bathgate saw Pitts blanch at his words and dropped the subject.
“Okay, back to the task at hand,” he muttered.
His eyes turned to those working at the edge of the scorching hole in the earth, heaping yellowish grit onto the soil. Sticking his fingers in his mouth he whistled, and all came to a stop.
“LINE UP!” he shouted.
Frantic movements followed as the workers tried to gather those on the other side of the burning hole. When they were all assembled, Bathgate tossed Pitts a knowing smirk and stepped toward the inferno, passing a casual glance behind him to make sure Handley, Porcello, Morales, and Ngyn were still watching.
“Everyone, masks off!” he ordered.
They all did as ordered, ripping the unwieldy masks off and holding them over their chests. An assortment of dirt-and-lye-smeared faces emerged. A few looked miserable, some looked to be coping, but all of them appeared nervous.
Bathgate scanned their faces, one-by-one, until he found what he was looking for—a young man, probably in his mid-twenties, with untidy brown hair and skittish, slanting eyes. His cheeks were red and irritated, with blisters forming on his forehead. His chest hitched with every other breath and snot poured over his upper lip, smearing the clumps of ash and lye,
“You,” said Bathgate, pointing at the soldier and smiling. “Step forward.”
The young man did as ordered. His shoulders seemed to relax just a bit. “Yes, sir?” he asked.
“Soldier, when did you get sick?” Bathgate asked.
“Sick? I’m sorry, sir, what’re you –”
Without hesitation, Bathgate unsheathed his sidearm, lifted it, and squeezed off a single shot at point-blank range. The young soldier’s eyes widened slightly just before the bullet plowed its way through the space between them. His nose imploded on impact and his head snapped back. The rest of the men in the line flinched, but did their best to remain motionless.
Bathgate hovered over the quivering body, pointed down, and addressed his four captains. “You see this?” he shouted. “Why did this happen?”
No one responded. Everyone appeared shocked.
Holstering his pistol, the general slammed a fist into his palm. “This is how it starts, people! The illness, RF, Wrathchild, chaos! A simple runny nose is all it takes. We were all there, we all saw it with our own eyes. Just because the undead no longer roam doesn’t mean we’re safe. There will be others to test us, other carriers of this illness of insanity.” He pointed at the fire raging behind him. “These flames will be stoked daily. Burn the dead! Let’s not allow Wrathchild to infiltrate our ranks! This poor soldier did not deserve the fate he received. Let us be vigilant. Let us be FREE!”
The captains, grins spreading across their faces, began clapping. As did the men behind him. Bathgate reached his arms out to the side and bathed in the sensation. After a few moments he turned to the soldiers and, in his most compassionate voice, said, “I appreciate your service and loyalty, and I’m sorry about what happened to your mate. It is unfortunate, but you do understand that drastic times call for drastic measures. So into the fire with this one, too. Diseased flesh must be burned. Let’s not forget that.”
Lye was dumped over the dead soldier, who was then grasped by the wrists and ankles and tossed into the pit. The fire grew momentarily stronger, then petered back down to a mild roar. Bathgate nodded to the captains, who saluted and departed the scene. The other men got back to work, hurrying to incinerate the dead while waiting for their shifts to end. Bathgate strode up to Pitts, who had an incredulous look on his large, glossy mug, and walked side-by-side with him to the waiting Humvee.
“What the hell was that?” Pitts asked.
“Again, it’s all about control,” the general replied, slapping the larger man on the back. “Not only give them something to rally against, but give them something to be afraid of. Promise to keep the people safe, and there’s nothing they won’t do for you.”
* * *
The man formerly known as Terrance Graham sat alone in his office in the Richmond City Hall, a pad of paper sitting listlessly in his lap. He swiveled in his chair and listened to the sounds of construction going on outside. The rebuilding was underway. The torched walls of the Hall itself were almost finished, and they were just getting started on the surrounding buildings. Things were progressing quickly, much to his liking. The legendary Alexander would be proud.
This thought brought about contemplations of his arrival to the city once more, and he frowned. For all his big ideas, for all his us-against-the-world-united-we-stand preaching, he knew his hegemony over the rank and file was tenuous, at best. He was lucky that the overtaking of the city and the casualties they encountered hadn’t turned the people against him. He knew he had Handley, Porcello, Morales, and Ngyn to thank for that, as they’d informed their segments of the population that the sacrifices were necessary, but he didn’t like it. He’d thrown all his eggs into the fanatics’ baskets. If he didn’t keep his end of the bargain, his reign would end as quickly as it had begun. Jackson’s cargo only threw yet another monkey wrench into the equation. He had to deal with the undesirables swiftly and decisively, otherwise the regular folks would start whispering. Regular folks always did. They didn’t trust authority, just like seemingly every other American of the new age. And that caused another fear to grow within him, for if those whispers led to anyone finding out who he really was, if anyone discovered him to be an imposter…
“Shut up,” he muttered, throwing his hands over his face. “Enough of this.”
He stood up, shut the blinds, and then returned to his seat. His fingers twisted the tiny metal knob on his desk lamp, and a soft yellow glow emanated from the bulb. Electricity. Buster Siregar and the other engineers had apparently been successful in getting the old power plant up and running—at least for the central grid. Should have power to at least half the city in about two weeks, Buster had told him, so long as the plants haven’t sustained too much damage. The man was true to his word.
This should have made Bathgate feel better, but it didn’t. Still his paranoia crept up on him, making his hands shake. Closing his eyes, he recited the names of the presidents in order. This had always calmed him in the past, but it wasn’t working this time. So he did the next best thing, picking up his pencil and honing a skill he’d been practicing for the last twenty years but had never perfected.
He sketched.
His initial thought was to draw Maggie the way she had been when they first met, with her thin, aristocratic nose and wavy brown hair. The pencil’s tip raced across the paper, forming the slight curve of the cheek, the plumpness of the lips, the ridges above the eyes. He worked ferociously, not thinking about what he was doing or where the picture was going, allowing
his instinct for the art to take over. His fears and doubts dropped away, leaving only him and the image he was creating in its wake. He’d never felt this way before, never been stricken with such inspiration that nothing else in the world mattered. It was exhilarating.
The pencil rubbed down to its nub and he re-sharpened it. His desk lamp dimmed, flickered, then went out—probably a power surge…Buster better get that taken care of, a distant section of his conscience said. Bathgate wasn’t listening to it. He just kept his head down, his fingers squeezed around the narrow shaft through which his creativity flowed, his eyes watching the lines form a distinct image, even in the darkness.
Even when the power came back up, he paid it no mind. His thoughts swirled, caught in the trappings of familiarity, as images of a woman very much not his Maggie vibrated across his vision. When the sketch was complete and he dutifully erased the spare lines, he tore open his drawer of art supplies, took out a tray of watercolors, and, using his mug of water, began to fill in the blanks of the picture.
He added red with a touch of white for the hair, scarlet for the lips, flesh with the lightest dab of pink, and eyes of green. When at last he filled in the black of the woman’s pupils he sat back, breathing heavily. The face staring back at him, a face fashioned with his very hand, grinned and winked. His heart raced and he felt his nethers harden.
She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen…at least that’s what he told himself. But no, that wasn’t true. He had seen that face before. In his youth, in the days before he met Maggie, he would dream of her. Those dreams were always fiery and filled with sexual frenzy, and there had been many a morning when a young Terrance Graham would have to remove and hide his sticky underwear before his mother found them and chastised him. He hadn’t thought of that face, of those dimpled cheeks and wide hips and small, perky breasts, in a very long time. He assumed his marriage, and the love he felt for his wife, had more than a little to do with that.
But now his wife, his Maggie, was gone, and the fantasy returned. Only it didn’t feel right. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, allowing his stiffness to loosen while he listened to the sound of the building crews outside. His thoughts wandered, and in that moment, when a tingling sensation crept from his pelvis to his ribcage, he came to a realization. His eyes snapped open and he stared at the picture.
She wasn’t a fantasy. She was real. He could feel it in his bones.
Someone rapped on the door, and the general glanced up. It squeaked open and one corner of a handlebar mustache emerged, followed by a single, bloodshot eye.
“Come in, Greg,” he said.
Pitts opened the door the rest of the way—cautiously, as if he was afraid it might explode if he pushed it too hard—and stepped into the room. He appeared pensive, mouth twisting while his bottom teeth chewed on the hairs of his mustache. It was a look Bathgate had seen on the man’s face far too often over the last few weeks. His friend was losing it.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Pitts shoved his hands in the pockets of his chaps and said, quietly, “Jackson will be here tomorrow…sir.” He held out his walkie-talkie, which Bathgate took.
“Thank you, Greg. Sit down, old friend.”
This seemed to calm Pitts down a bit. When he lowered his large frame into the leather chair opposite the general’s desk, the rush of air from the cushion mirrored the one that left his mouth. His pallor brightened and he managed a grin.
“So, whatchu been doing?” he asked.
Bathgate glanced down at the sheet of paper in front of him. The paint was still drying, and the glimmering wetness made the image seem that much more sensual. He sighed and, pressing down only on the corners, slid the picture across his desk.
“I was drawing,” he said.
Pitts mirrored the general’s movements, carefully twisting the rectangle around. A whistle escaped his lips. “Wow,” he said. “That’s damn good. You did this all on your own?”
Bathgate nodded.
“Nice.” Pitts glanced up with a quizzical look in his eyes. “So, who is she? An old friend?”
“Yes.”
Pitts frowned. “She dead?”
At this, Bathgate chuckled. “No she isn’t, Greg. Not in the slightest.”
CHAPTER 7
OF LOVERS, PAST AND PRESENT
Her head smacked something hard, and Kyra’s eyes popped open. She yelped as blurred images rushed past her vision, giant brown-and-green monoliths that melded into a wall of tentacles and flesh. Weight pressed against her knee, making her yelp once more.
“Yo, Kye,” Josh’s voice said. “What’s the matter?”
She slowly turned her head and saw him, glancing intermittently at her and the road ahead, with one hand on the wheel, the other on her knee. Her heart pounded in her ears and she pursed her lips, trying to calm herself down. Only a nightmare, she thought. She shook her head—she couldn’t remember the particulars of the dream, just the sensation of dread that overcame her. Glancing to the right again, she spotted a smear of grease on the passenger window, presumably from when her forehead smacked against it.
“Sorry,” Josh said as she stared at the blemish. “Hit a nasty pothole.”
Kyra rubbed the sore spot on her noggin. “It’s okay,” she muttered.
More hands touched her, this time from the back seat. She peered over her shoulder and saw Jessica’s face, brown eyes considering her with more concern than she thought she deserved. “You okay?” she asked.
“Yup, I’m fine. Just a nightmare.”
Just a nightmare. That phrase didn’t even begin to tell the whole story. Every time she fell asleep it ended the same—with her waking in a sweat, panic numbing her spine. It had been going on for weeks. Just like now, she could barely remember anything concrete about what she experienced in her subconscious. Instead, in those moments she was left to live with a constant, gut-wrenching sense of claustrophobia and panic.
Her hands fell to her ample stomach. There was a hard spot on the surface, bulging out like a pimple made of stone. Her fingers traced the outline of the protuberance, wondering if it was a foot or a knee. The lump then shifted, and she felt an immense pressure on her bladder.
“Oh shit,” she muttered. “Pull over.”
Josh did so, steering the SUV to the shoulder. She was out the door before the car stopped moving, yanking down her pants and peeing on the side of the road. Leaning her head against the open passenger door, she grunted in irritation. At least she wasn’t thinking about her fear anymore. If there’s one thing pregnancy’s good for, it’s forgetting about the little things.
When she finished, she yanked up her pants, ignoring the few splashes of urine dampening her crotch, and climbed back into the car. Jessica glanced at her with an expression that was half grimace, half smirk, holding up an old towel to shield Andy, Francis, Meghan, and the other two children in the car from the sight of her “going about her business.” Thank God. Kyra muttered her gratitude and leaned back in her seat, wishing she could recline it a little more. The swell of her belly made sitting in the damn car for long stretches nearly unbearable.
“How’s the baby?” asked Josh.
Kyra’s eyes turned to him, and she rolled them. “She’s fine.”
With a slight chuckle, Josh turned his gaze back to the road and hit the gas. He stuck his hand out the window, signaling for the car behind them to follow. Kyra checked the rearview mirror, saw the black hood and wide headlights of the trailing automobile, and muttered, “Oh, shit.”
Josh slapped her knee and said, “Eh, don’t worry ’bout it none.”
“Why not?”
“Mary did the same thing. And with those hips, I bet everyone was glad to have someone else to look at.”
Kyra chuckled, and finally a sense of lightness filled her. That chuckle became a gentle laugh, then a full-out guffaw. Josh and Jessica laughed along with her, and the children, after looking at each other like their adult chaper
ones had gone insane, eventually joined in as well. The interior of the SUV became a parade of raucous, carefree laughter, and for the first time that day, Kyra smiled.
Those smiles had been coming with far more frequency—with the exception of her terrifying, unremembered nightmares, of course. For the last twelve days, since Josh made the decision to leave Kingston (a verdict answered with a resounding yes by all but old Emily), each day brought about more and more good cheer. Josh seemed to be back to his old self, cracking inappropriate jokes, playing games with the boys, and irritating a rather cranky Luanda every chance he could. There were no more wandering dead blocking their path, no more eerie sounds of moaning filling their evenings. Birds and crickets chirped, and the wind brought with it the sickly sweet scent of mud and pollen. Even the distant howl of coyotes, which they heard occasionally, seemed welcome, even though Josh cringed and became morose every time. It was as if nature was waking up from a long, fitful, terrifying sleep and wishing itself to be happy again.
Yet there was something nagging at her, something that prevented her from being truly happy, and it wasn’t only her nightly terrors. She also felt a strange sense of foreboding in the air, a hazy dark cloud of worry that drifted into her every thought, every action. It was only when she was alone, with her hands on her belly and thinking about the child within her that the sinister ambiance lifted. It seemed that the child helped to heal her soul, much like it had her wounded insides so many months ago.
Once more Josh’s hand reached across the space between them, only this time he placed it over her belly. “Why do you always call it a she?” he asked.
She grinned. “I told you, it feels like a girl.”
“That so? Just a feeling?”
“That’s all she needs,” piped in Jessica. “Mother’s intuition is better than any sonogram.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” said Kyra, squeezing her lover’s hand. “Sometimes, there’re things we just know.”
* * *
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