A peculiar movement in my saddlebag reminded me that I had looted one thing from Bone Manor…the zombie-head of my old friend, the one I had kicked across the floor and later tripped over. Apparently, I had picked it up on my way out. A living zombie head was a cool thing to have. He was going to be my new friend.
I felt my face with my good hand. Yes, it was a mangled wreck. But it was me.
A rumbling sound broke my reverie. Looking up I saw by the swaying flagpoles and then the actual towers that the City State was enduring an earthquake. These were actually quite common but never very strong; however, it was obvious this was a major event. It seemed as if the epicenter emanated from Bone Manor, and the towers that flanked the evil place began to shed stone, which plummeted into the streets below. The cries of thousands of people began to reach me, and then the shattering collapse began in earnest. I watched in dumb-founded joy as the great towers buckled, sending thousands of tons of debris onto the rest of the building. This impact was enough to drive the whole structure through the first layer of crust that made up that thin barrier between the world and the abyss beneath it and with that Bone Manor was sent below the earth, taking its hellish design and the rest of the city with it. A gigantic cloud of dust vomited from the earth like a volcanic spray, obscuring the fact, for the moment, that the Manor and the city that had spawned it had been swallowed by the very maw of hell, leaving nothing but a field of rubble and earth, which was forever cursed.
I decided to ride south.
* * *
Dave Brockie is an artist hailing from Richmond, Va., and is better known to the world as Oderus Urungus, the bestial lead singer of the shock metal group GWAR. When not lopping off heads in the name of heavy metal, or scribbling increasingly confusing “squiggle-art”, Brockie can often be found pecking away on his trusty lap-top, “Bessie”. Brockie has a continuing blog called “GWAR, Me, and the Onrushing Grip of Death”, which chronicles his many years as rock’s smelliest front-thing, which can be found at . His first novel, Whargoul, is available from Eraserhead Press, and his antics can be tracked at www.rvanews.com. Follow his twitter feed at therealoderus and keep up with GWAR at www.oderus.com and gwar.net.
THE WIND THROUGH THE FENCE
JONATHAN MABERRY
-1-
The fucking thing was heavy. Sixteen pounds of metal on a two pound piece of ash. Eighteen pounds. Already heavy when the foreman handed it down from the truck ten minutes after dawn held a match to the morning sky; by nine o’clock it weighed a god damned ton. By noon my arms were on fire and by quitting time I couldn’t feel where the pain ended and I began. I’d eat too little, drink too much, throw up and shamble off to bed, praying that I’d die in my sleep rather than hear that bugle.
The bugle, man. You couldn’t stop it. Only one thing in the world more relentless than that motherfucking bugle, and they were the reason the bugle got us up. To build the fence. To fix the fence. To extend the fence. To maintain the fence.
The fence, the fence the god damned fence.
We talked about the fence. Nobody talked about what was on the other side of it.
Each and every morning the bugle scream would tear me out of the darkness and kick me thrashing back into the world. Almost every morning. They gave us fence guys Sunday off. We were supposed to use the day paying.
Not sure exactly what we were praying for. Suicides were highest on Sundays, so hang any meaning on that you want. Me? I used Sundays to get drunker and try to catch up on sleep. Yeah, I know that drunk sleep doesn’t do shit for the body, but who do you know that can sleep without booze? Maybe some of those lucky fucks who scavenged good headphones from a store, or the ones who popped their own eardrums. No one else can get to sleep with that noise. The moaning.
Even after the fear of it wore off, and that was a long damn time ago, when you lie there in the dark and hear the moaning it makes you think. It makes you wonder.
Why? Are they in pain?
Is it some kind of weird-ass hunting cry?
Are they trying to communicate in the only way they know how?
I shared a tent for two weeks with a guy who was always trying to philosophize about it. Not sure what his deal was. Some kind of half-assed philosopher. Probably a poet or writer back when that mattered. Some shit like that. Everybody called him Preach. He’d lay there on his cot, fingers laced behind his head, staring up at the darkness as the dead moaned and moaned, and he’d tell me different ideas he had about it. Theories. He’d number them, too. Most nights he had two or three stupid theories. Demons speaking with dead tongues, that was a favorite of his. That was Theory #51. He came back to that one a lot. Demons. Motherfucker, please.
The last theory I heard from him was Theory #77.
“You want to hear it?” Preach asked.
The camp lights were out except for the torches on the fence and we didn’t bunk near the fence. That night we were hammering posts in for a new extension that would allow us to extend the safe zone all the way north. Some genius decided to reclaim arable land along Route 60, and the plan was to run west from Old Tampa Bay straight through to Clearwater. They moved a lot of us in wagons from the fence we’d been building just above Route 93 by the Saint Petersburg-Clearwater airport. I pitched my tent on a mound where I could catch a breeze. I was half in the bag on moonshine that was part grain alcohol and part battery acid. No joke.
I said, “No.”
“You sure?” asked Preach.
“I’m trying to sleep.”
Preach was quiet for a while, and then he started talking as if I’d said, sure, tell me your fucking Theory #77.
“It’s the wind up from hell.”
I frowned into my pillow. At first I thought he was talking about the hot wind out of the southwest. But that wasn’t what he was saying.
“You know that line? The one everybody used to say right around the time this thing really got started.”
I knew what he was talking about. Everyone knew it, but I didn’t answer. Maybe he’d think I drifted off.
But he said, “You know the one. When there’s no more room in hell…? That one?”
I said nothing.
“I think they were right,” he persisted. “I think that’s exactly what it is.”
“Bullshit,” I mumbled, and he caught it.
“No, really, Tony. I think that’s what that sound is.”
We both said nothing for a minute while we listened. The breeze was coming at us across re-claimed lands all the way from the Gulf of Mexico, and it kept the sound damped down a bit. Not all the way, though. Never all the way. It was there, under the sound of trees and kudzu swaying in the breeze; under the whistle of wind through chain links of the fence. The moan. Sounding low and quiet, but I knew it was loud. It was always loud. A rhythm without rhythm, that’s how I thought of it. The dead, who didn’t need to breathe, taking in ragged chestfuls of air just so they could cry out with that moan. Day and night, week after week, month after month, it never stopped.
“That’s exactly what that is,” said Preach. “That’s the wind straight from hell itself, boiled up in the Pit and exhaled at us by all the dead. Seven billion dead and damned souls crying out, breathing the wind from hell right in our faces.”
“No,” I said.
“Listen to it. It can’t be anything else. The breath of Hell blowing hot and hungry in our faces.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
He chuckled in the dark, and for a moment that sound was louder and more horrible than the moans. “People aren’t just throwing words around when they called this an ‘apocalypse’. It is. It is the Apocalypse, the absolute end of all things. Wind of hell, man. Wind of hell.”
They gave me a bonus next day at mess call. Anyone who finds a zom in camp and puts his lights out gets a bottle of booze. A real bottle, one from a warehouse. I got a bottle of Canadian Club whiskey.
They opened the fence long enough to throw Preach’s body into the mud on the other si
de. No one asked me how he died. As a society we were kind of past that point. What mattered is that when Preach died unexpectedly in his sleep I was on my pins enough to take a shovel to him and cut his head off.
That night I drank myself to sleep early. I used to think Canadian Club was a short step down from dog piss, but it was the best booze I’d had in six months, and it knocked me right on my ass.
I didn’t sleep well, though. I dreamed of Preach. Of the way he thrashed, the way he beat against my arms and tore at my hands, the way he tried to fight, tried to cling to life.
I woke up crying an hour before dawn and was still crying when the bugle screamed.
-2-
My arms ached from the sledgehammer. As I swung at the post I tried to remember a time when they didn’t hurt. I couldn’t. Not really.
Swinging the hammer was mostly everything that filled my memories.
Six days a week, going on eighteen months now.
The first week I thought I’d die. The second week I wished I would. One of the guys—a shift supervisor who used to work cattle in central Florida—started taking bets on how long I’d last. The first pool gave me ten days. Then it was two weeks. A month. Until Christmas. Each time the pools got smaller because I kept not falling down. I kept not dying. I won’t say that I kept alive. It didn’t feel like that then and doesn’t feel like that now. I didn’t die. I lasted longer than the shift supervisor said he might.
On the other hand, outlasting the supervisor’s last prediction of “Four months and you’ll be swallowing broken glass to get out of this gig” was not the victory I expected. Each new day felt like a defeat, or at best a confirmation that escape was one klick farther down the road than yesterday.
Some of the guys seemed to thrive on it. Fuck ‘em. Some guys in prison thrived on being turned into fish. I knew he wouldn’t have survived prison. I used to think that. Though the old time prisons–not the hell holes they have now—would be better, cleaner and less terrifying than my current nine-to-five.
I stood on the soup line, waiting my turn for a quart of hot water with some mystery meat and vegetables that tasted like they’ve been boiling since before the Fall. I looked over at a guy sitting on the tailgate of an old F-150. The man was holding a piece of meat and staring at it, crying with big silent sobs, snot running into the corners of his mouth. Nobody else was looking at him, so I looked away, too. I was four back from the soup and my soup bowl–a big plastic jug with a handle that had graduated marks on it like it was used to measure something once upon a time—hung from the crook of my right index finger. I looked down at it and saw that some of yesterday’s stew was caked onto the side. I didn’t know what was in that, either.
I closed my eyes and dragged a forearm across my face. Even doing that hurt. Little firecrackers popped in my biceps and I could feel every single nerve in my lower and mid-back. They were all screaming at me, sending me hate mail.
The line shuffled a step forward and now I was even with the crying guy. I recognized him–one of the schlubs who were too useless even to swing a sledge so they had him working clean-up in the kitchen trucks. I tried to stare at the back of a big Latino kid in the line in front of me, but his eyes kept sneaking over to steal covert looks. The man was still staring at the piece of meat.
Christ, I thought, what did he think it was?
Worst case scenario was that they were going to be eating dog, or maybe cat. Cat wasn’t too bad. One of the guys I currently shared a tent with had a good recipe for cat. Cat and tomatoes with bay leaves. Cheap stuff, but it tasted okay. Since the Fall I’d had a lot worse. Hell, I’d had worse before that, especially at that sushi place near Washington Square. The stuff they served there tasted like cat shit.
I caught some movement and turned. The guy had dropped the chunk of meat and had climbed up onto the tailgate.
The Latino kid, Ruiz, turned to me. “Bet you a smoke that he’s just seen God and wants to tell us about it.”
“Sucker’s bet,” I said. But I had an extra smoke and shook one out of the pack for the kid. The kid nodded and we both looked at the man on the tailgate.
“It’s not right!” the crying man shouted in a voice that was phlegmy with snot and tears. “We know it’s not right.”
“No shit,” someone yelled and there was a little ripple of laughter up and down the line.
“This isn’t what we’re here for!” screamed the man. “This isn’t why God put us here…”
“Fucking told you,” said Ruiz. “It’s always God.”
“Sometimes it’s the voices in their heads,” I suggested.
“Put there by God.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Okay.”
The screaming man ranted. A couple security guards wormed their way through the crowd, moving up quiet so as not to spook him. Last week a screamer went apeshit and knocked over the serving table. Everyone went hungry until quitting time. But this guy wasn’t going anywhere. His diatribe wasn’t well thought out and it spiraled down into sobs. I didn’t get in the way or say shit when the guards pulled him down and dragged him away.
We watched the toes of his shoes cut furrows in the mud. Maybe it was because the guy didn’t fight that the chatter and chuckles died down among the men on the food line. We all watched the guards take the guy into the blue trailer at the end of the row. I didn’t know what went on in there, and didn’t care. The guy wouldn’t be seen again, and life here at the fence would go on like it had last week and last month and last year. It was always like that now. You worked, you ate, you slept like the dead, you jerked off in the dark when you thought no one was looking, you tried not to hear the moans, you drank as much as you could, you slept some more, you got up, you worked. And sometimes God shouts through your mouth and they take you to the Blue Trailer.
And sometimes in the night you listen to the wind from Hell blow through the mouths of the dead and nothing—not booze or a pillow wrapped around your head—will keep that sound out.
For eighteen months that had been the pattern of my life and my world.
I was pretty sure that it was the pattern all up and down the fence line, from Kenneth City to Feather Sound, following a crooked link of chain link that we erected between us and the end of the world. Work crews like mine, three, four thousand men, working in the no man’s land while a line of bulldozers with triple-wide blades held the dead back. Every day was a race. Every day some of the dead got through and you heard shotguns or the soft thunk of axes as the Safety Teams cut them down. We were the lowest of the low, guys who don’t have a place in the world anymore. I used to broker corporate real estate. Malls, airports, shit like that. Back when land was something you could own land rather than try to steal it back. Closest thing to a blue collar job I ever worked was managing a Taco Bell franchise for an uncle of mine while I was in college. I used call it honest work.
Some guys still throw the phrase around. Guys standing ankle deep in Florida mud, trying not to get carried away by mosquitoes, swinging a sledge hammer to build a fence. Honest work.
What the hell does that even mean? Guys like me were about the lowest thing on the food chain. Well…convicts were. Guys who stole food or left gates open. They had to dig latrines and hunt for scraps in the garbage. I heard stories that in some camps food thieves were shoved outside the fence line with their hands tied behind their back. Never saw it happen, but I knows guys who said they had.
Not how I felt about it, though. If I saw it, I mean. Would I give a flying shit? With my stomach grinding on empty almost all the time, how much compassion could I ladle out for a heartless fuck who stole food so that we’d all have less.
I might actually watch. A lot of the guys would.
It’s what we’d have since we don’t have TV.
I chewed on that while I stood in line waiting for food.
I watched the real swinging dicks go to work. The construction skills who came in once we had the double rows of chain-link fence in place, using
the last of the working cranes to fill the gap between the two fences with cars. A wall of Chevys and Toyotas and Fords and fucking SUVs six cars high and two cars deep. Maybe a million of them so far, and no shortage of raw materials rusting away waiting for the crews to take them from wherever they stopped. Or crashed.
I wondered where my cars were. The Mercedes-Benz CLS I used to drive back and forth to the train, and the gas-sucking Escalade that I drove for fun and fuck the oil shortage.
The guy on the soup line grunted at me and I held out my plastic jug and watched dispassionately as the gray meat was sloshed in. “Bread or crackers?”
“Bread,” I said. “Got any butter? Any jelly?”
“You making a fucking joke?”
I shrugged. “Hey, there’s always hope.”
The guy chewed his toothpick for a second. He gave me a funny look and handed over a bread roll that looked like a dog turd and smelled faintly of kerosene. “Get the fuck out of here before I beat the shit out of you.”
I sighed.
As I moved on he said, loud enough for people to hear, ““You find any hope out here, brother you come let me know.”
A bunch of the guys laughed. Most pretended not to hear. It was too true to be funny, too sad to have to keep in your head while you ate.
I thanked him and moved on. You always thank the food guys because they’ll do stuff to your food if you don’t. Even the shit they serve out can actually get worse.
Ruiz came with him and they found a spot in the shade of a billboard where they could see the valley. On this side of the fence everything was either picked clean or torn town. Every house behind him had been searched and marked with codes like they used after Katrina and Ike. X for checked, and a number for how many bodies. Black letters for dead and decaying. Red letters for dead and walking around. Not that we needed to be told. We were in the lines right behind the clean-up teams. We’d hear the shots, we’d see them carrying out the bodies. Anything that came out wrapped in plastic with yellow police tape around it was infected. We’d been seeing this house by house since we started building the fence, and the sound of earthmovers and front-end loaders digging burial pits was 24/7.
Death, Be Not Proud Page 18
