Palimpsest (Book 2): Of One Skein, Page 2

  He grins. “I know.”

  He falls into step beside me as we walk toward the downed motorcycle.

  “She told you?” It’s hard to believe she opened up that much.

  “No, I meant I know you’re a piece of shit.”

  I glare at him and he laughs. “And, she told me how she feels about you too. Sounds like you’re a…a complicated guy?”

  I’m not sure how I feel about them getting so chummy so fast, but then maybe that’s the way it works now, make friends fast, confide, love, build memories — I think about the burned little girl under the wagon — because the only way to live in this end of days is fast.

  §§§§§

  The rider is ass over teakettle, bleeding out onto the asphalt. His arms and legs are splayed out, his gray jumpsuit ripped and bloodied. Somewhere along the way, as the bike came apart, it lost its front wheel. The bike’s forks ended up buried in this guy’s stomach, just below the crater Cam put in his chest.

  If Cam hadn’t killed him, the accident would have.

  The crash savaged his body; I can see the white of his skull through the blood on the back of his head — chunky road-rash.

  He has an olive-green gas mask covering his face. It’s got large black lenses, like bug eyes and a thick corrugated rubber hose sticking out of a black, hard plastic pyramid covering his mouth and nose. Buckled rubber straps wrap around his head.

  The top gasket, above the eye sockets, has something written on it. I’m not sure if it’s blood or not — loquimur sine ore.

  The road stinks of gasoline, but this guy smells worse — like something that’s turned, something spoiled or rotting.

  “Fucking mess. We got it now, pendejo.” He’s staring at me like he’s pissed, and I have no idea why, but I think I’ve seen this before — I’m guessing he’s just afraid and trying to act tough, blustering his way through.

  I wonder if he’s afraid of me. I’m not the stable boy he thought I was.

  “You sure about that?” I ask, winking at him.

  He takes a step toward me, but Cam brings him up short. “Lighten up, Paco,” he says angrily.

  Paco scowls at me and then turns his attention to the rider. “What’s with the mask and the hose?” he asks, pointing, “And the thing on his back.”

  “Shut up,” I say as I begin to seriously examine the biker.

  Paco narrows his eyes. “Yo, asshole…”

  “Shut the fuck up,” I shout dismissively, and raise Cam’s pistol to my temple, concentrating.

  The thing on the dead guy’s back is a military-green cylinder about a foot or so long and six inches across, secured like a backpack.

  It’s whirring.

  It’s got power — fucking power?

  “What about the one that got away?” Paco asks in frustration.

  Cam looks to me, at the canister and then at Paco.

  There’s a lot going on and none of it makes sense, least of all the hope that the power might come back on. I think we all know it won’t, not like before, but goddamn it if that little buzzing sound isn’t fucking inspiring.

  I can tell Cam senses it too.

  I sigh, letting it go and think about Paco’s question. “I told you; these guys are scary, fucked up scary. Assume they know everything about us now. If these are the same guys from back at the warehouse, and they sure as hell look the same, then we need to be somewhere else as soon as we can get there.”

  Paco looks up the road. “These those guys?”

  “They don’t look like Crayton,” the older guy with Paco says.

  “Not Crayton, the other ones,” Cam says.

  I check out Paco’s buddies. One might have been a gang banger, the other, the older one, a biker meth dealer maybe, at least back in the Before Time. I’m guessing that on any given afternoon, outside a liquor store or gas station, they were probably pretty Billy Badass.

  The drug dealer looking dude is a tall, middle-aged white guy with a gray beard and matching, long greasy hair. He’s wearing grungy, black riding leathers.

  His buddy is a black dude with tattoos running up his neck and gold hoops through his ears. His braided extensions are thinning out some, but still holding up well enough considering the apocalypse has closed most of the better salons in southern Ohio, or Pennsylvania or wherever the fuck we are. He’s wearing droopy black jeans, work boots, a plain white t-shirt and a North Carolina University sports jacket.

  Is that still a thing?

  I remember them now from behind the used video store parking lot. They both had that don’t-fuck-with-me, juiced and pumped, chest-out asshole thing going.

  Now — they just look scared.

  When Paco meets my gaze again, the act is gone and he just looks scared too. “Where?” he asks, spreading his arms out and looking up and down the highway. “Where the fuck do we go?”

  “Chill,” Cam says and kneels down over the dead guy.

  “We need to talk to the assholes that attacked us, maybe they know something,” Paco says. His tone is uneven.

  “We will,” Cam says, “we will.”

  “We need to…” Paco starts again, like he’s trying to tame his nerves with his mouth.

  “I said to chill, seriously, shut the fuck up,” Cam shouts.

  I’m staring up the road, thinking about what to do when I notice Paco’s buddies take a nervous step back. “What the…” the white dude shouts in surprise.

  I turn to see Paco stepping back too and Cam is on his ass crawling backward as fast as he can scramble, like a goddamned crab. His eyes like saucers.

  I looked down to see the dead guy twitching, his boots and hands spasming, jerking violently back and forth.

  “It’s just reflexes, dudes, sack up,” I say and kick the guy in the hip.

  He howls — in pain — in anger?

  I jump back as Paco draws his pistol and opens up on the dead guy.

  His buddies join in.

  The horses rear, their eyes rolling in terror at the gunfire and then they bolt, taking off back down the road.

  Cam shouts at Paco to stop, but they keep pounding the guy until they’ve emptied their magazines, riddling him with oozing holes.

  They’re all panting, eyes wide and faces flushed. They’re freaking out.

  “It’s just air in the lungs, Christ, he’s dead,” Cam says. “Superstitious assholes. For the last time, chill the fuck out and stop shooting shit. They call it a death rattle.”

  Paco looks uncertain but lowers his gun as he jambs in a new magazine.

  “Right?” Cam looks at me for confirmation. He looks pretty shaken up too.

  I pull out a cigarette and a match. “I’ve seen some pretty fucked up shit since the bottom fell out, but I’ve never seen anything like this. Sorry, dude. He looked pretty fucking dead, you know, past tense?”

  My hands are shaking so much I can barely light my cigarette.

  And then the dead guy arches his back and grabs clumsily at the motorcycle forks sticking out of his stomach, moaning like he’s trying to call for help as he tries to pull himself, sliding up the metal tubes.

  “The fuck?” Paco screams.

  Paco’s right — this is all kinds of fucking wrong.

  I take a long slow drag off my smoke, trying like hell to hold it together. Every rational fiber in me is screaming to join the horses, run away — as fast as I can.

  Cam’s still on his ass, but slowly gets back to his feet, trying to be the leader — trying to get his shit together too.

  “What’s in the cylinder?” I ask. I can hear the tremor in my own voice.

  “How the fuck should I know, pendejo?” Paco shouts.

  “Read it, what’s it say?” I demand. I’m getting pissed again.

  It helps.

  He looks unsure and bends over the thrashing corpse, but not too close. “Just a bunch of numbers, like serial numbers, it doesn’t say anything.”

  I walk around and lean over his shoulder. “You can’t r
ead anything from here.”

  “Don’t push me, asshole, the fuck!” Paco sputters.

  I ignore him, shoving past and kneel down, laying one hand on the rider’s shoulder, pushing him to the ground so I can get a better look at the writing on the cylinder. He thrashes against my hand, like he’s trying to turn over and face me. I plant a knee into his back, pinning him and let my smoke hang from my lips.

  “Jesus, dude, not so close,” Paco says softly.

  I glare at him as he takes another step backward.

  A biohazard symbol is painted in red at the top of the canister and now that I’m closer I can clearly hear the motor inside. Is it filtering the air or pumping something into him. Is it the Zombie Gas we’ve been hearing about? Is that what’s keeping him alive?

  “Is he dead or not?” the biker dude asks.

  “Zombie,” Paco whispers.

  “Zombie? Fuck, no.” Cam laughs nervously and looks to me, probably remembering our conversation last night.

  He shakes his head dramatically and goes to spit, like he’s dismissing Paco for being a fool, but his mouth must be dry — nothing comes out.

  Our eyes meet.

  We’re in a bad place and we both know it, but we make a silent agreement not to talk about it here.

  I shrug like it’s no thang, but it is a fucking thang — it’s scary as hell. I shove my knee harder against the thing’s back and continue examining the canister and find a valve near the top and what might be a power switch. I flip the switch and the whirring abruptly begins to wind down. I wait a few seconds, avoiding the dead guy’s arms and legs as they flop around aimlessly, like he’s stroked out and can’t control them anymore, and then take a risk and step on the hose, before yanking the mask from his face.

  My brave pals jump back — it’s instinct.

  I just watch him — fascinated.

  He’s trying to breathe, gulping air through what’s left of his mouth. His nose is just two slits surrounded by pink and yellow scars and healing burns.

  The tattoos begin where his lips should be and radiate out in thick intricate tribal lines over his razor scraped and scabbed head. His ears are black, but it looks like paint or something else instead of necrosis. Both ears are pierced with finishing nails, brass furniture tacks and safety pins, plus he’s got a crucifix dangling from his right ear.

  I remember the face of the guy I saw after the mob last week — the leader of the Cart People.

  What kind of fucked up cult shit is this?

  Cam takes another step back. He’s as freaked as I am, but can’t hide it as well.

  I stand up and take another pull on my smoke, studying the guy on the pavement as I get my nerves under control. He’s suffocating; wheezing like Denise Carlson was that last night, desperately trying to catch her breath.

  Blood is bubbling up through his nose slits and dripping from the corners of his mouth.

  And then his eyes pop open, bloody orbs with black irises surrounded by yellow cataracts, full of pain — and awareness.

  He lifts his head from the roadway, staring up at me with hatred.

  I shoot him once in the head and he finally goes limp.

  “Dude…” someone whispers.

  And then I shoot him again.

  “Fuck…” It’s the black dude. I glance over to see his buddy, the meth dealer running full speed back toward the wagons. I would never have guessed he could run that fast. He’s bow-legged.

  I guess that shouldn’t be funny, but it is.

  The rumors will be viral by the time we get back.

  “This is some exorcist shit right here,” the black dude says.

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  “Dante.”

  “Like the Inferno?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind,” I say.

  “Is that running on batteries? Is it electric?” Paco asks

  “Electric motor, batteries, yeah, I guess so. Maybe the EMPs didn’t affect them?”

  “Why not?” he asks.

  “The last science class I was in was with Mrs. Grubner, and that was two years ago in the eighth fucking grade. I don’t know how this shit works.”

  Paco leans over, looking at me.

  “What?” I ask.

  He counts on his fingers. “You’re just a sophomore?” he asks.

  I ignore him.

  “This is bad,” Cam says.

  “Pretty fucked up,” I agree.

  He steps closer and leans over the remains of what was probably a college student a few short months ago, worried about registering for classes and getting laid — I’m pretty sure becoming one of the Undead wasn’t on his list of shit to freak out about. But then, who would have believed that any of us would be standing here, in fucking Ohio, armed to the teeth and watching an honest to God Zombie twitch and flop around like this?

  A zombie?

  Jesus fuck.

  Cam tries again and this time he manages to spit on the kid. He looks disgusted and pissed, but there’s more — it’s the leader thing, it’s weighing on him more than it did. “Bury this piece of shit before we have to start answering questions. Dante, make sure your bro keeps his mouth shut, and, Paco, get Brandon and Taylor down here to see if we can salvage anything.”

  I look around at the others, studying them one by one. I wonder if I have the same look in my eyes — because they all look scared shitless.

  §§§§§

  “They have our kids, what were we supposed to do?” she cries. She’s stooped and withdrawn, cloaked in anguish. Her eyes drift between intense, sorrow-filled clarity and vacant stares focused on some hidden memory only she can see.

  It’s the same woman who slapped me earlier this morning.

  For now, she’s lucid and glaring at me, her gaze dripping with hatred.

  “Start from the beginning, you’re not making any sense,” Cam says. He’s getting increasingly frustrated.

  The survivors are tied to one another, ankle to ankle, and lined up inside one of the empty U-haul trailers. They’re all scared and, bereft doesn’t really quite cover it — they’re fucking traumatized.

  They’re huddled close together near the front of the trailer, pulling their filthy coats close over their ragged jeans and salvaged sweaters.

  They look like they’ve been slowly losing the battle with this new America, today was just the latest setback, for many of them, today looks like their last.

  They can’t stop staring at me — their fear fills the trailer. I don’t want to be here, but Cam insisted.

  The middle-aged woman being interrogated is sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, facing the back of the trailer in a puddle of long green skirts and a camel hair overcoat that looks like the London Fog my dad picked up from a second-hand store a few years ago. She’s got her graying hair tied back into a long thick ponytail, the box color growing out from the roots.

  She’s like a tree, we can see the record of the day the world ended in the color of her hair.

  Her eyes are a deep amber, vibrant and alive, but her face is sallow, dark circles surround her wrinkled and bruised eyes.

  She looks like a witch.

  Sam’s standing next to me at the open gate of the trailer, one foot on the black painted bumper, nearly trembling with anger as she fidgets with her reclaimed .38. I feel nothing but regret and pity, but Sam is stronger — she sees an enemy, one that attacked us without provocation, indiscriminately killing men, women and even children.

  I remember Laura — Sam found out her name — the little girl burned under the wagon. She didn’t deserve that, but did these people deserve what I did to them?

  As far as Sam’s concerned, these people, these survivors, they deserve nothing.

  Fortunately, I’m all too aware that my judgment is fucked, for the time being anyway, so I’m staying out of the debate, deferring to her and Cam.

  The woman takes a deep breath, more in frustration than anything else it seems an
d shares a look with one of the girls behind her. “They came to us yesterday, the masked men,” she says calmly — again.

  “Gas masks?” Cam asks.

  She nods.

  “And?” Cam asks.

  “And they took our children…”

  “We’ve heard this part before, what happened next?” Cam asks.

  The woman glares up at Cam and then shifts her gaze to me. Her story always stops at this point.

  Does she have the guts to relive it this time, whatever horror that’s shutting her down, can she face it? It sucks, but sooner or later, Cam’s going to force her to deal with it.

  “They took all of them, except Kevin and…my Ronny. They told us about you. They said if we ever wanted to see our children again…”

  “What? What did they tell you to…”

  “Kill you! They said we had to kill you. All of you.” Her lips are tight, her expression infused with retribution and blame.

  “You believed them?” Cam asks.

  She screams in pain and disbelief, anguish pouring out in great gasping sobs. The sound is almost supernatural in the small trailer and the other women wail with her, for her — maybe remembering the same nightmare. Sam looks away, like she’s refusing to accept the woman’s pain. It doesn’t fit with her narrative.

  I recognize the scream, though.

  It’s the same one I hear in my head every night.

  The woman’s voice is wavering, her whole body trembling. “They gutted my Ronny right in front me, my little Ronny, stuck a knife in his stomach they did, and gutted him like a fish…while we watched…they made us watch, made me watch — so we’d know they were serious…so we’d know…” Her voice is losing emotion and focus, becoming monotone. She’s losing her mind right in front of us.

  She looks back at the girl again.

  And then her gaze dims again as she looks out the back of the trailer, past us, to some private hell. “We didn’t wait for them to kill anymore, we believed…we listened…we did what they told us to do, we obeyed. They made us.”