Last Rites (16 page)

“You look sad. Do you feel sad, ‘cause you think you scare me?” she asked as she pulled her hand back finally. She was as perceptive as she claimed. “You don’t. Doctor Jack’s wrong about that: I know which people to be afraid of. Some dead people, some regular people. I know.

“I’ll call you Professor, okay?” she said after a brief pause. If anyone were frightened, it was Truman, at how much she could tell. But he just nodded.

She pointed at the book in his hands. “Doctor Jack and I were trying to think what you could do. We were going through all kinds of junk he’s got, trying to get ideas. He thought of wrapping you up in cloths and setting them on fire, so you could climb up a ladder and jump off into a little tub of water. I said that was dumb, for a smart person like you. You needed something better.”

Truman was already in her debt, clearly.

“Then I saw this pile of books,” she said. “He’s got lots more, too. Nobody wants them. They just use them to start fires when it’s cold. But I saw what they were, and I bet him you could answer questions and surprise people. They’d pay money to ask you a question from here, you’d point at the answer, and I’d check the answer in the back. So try some. Go ahead.” She handed him a stub of a pencil.

The book she’d given him was full of analogies, like “book is to shelf as plate is to cupboard,” where one of the items was missing and you had to pick it from four choices. The test must’ve been for younger people, as the vocabulary was basic and the relationships uncomplicated. Truman felt like he knew most all of them as he went through a page and handed the book to Dalia. She turned back and forth, checking his answers against those in the back.

“I knew you could do it!” she said after a moment. “You only missed one!”

Truman was glad she was pleased and would win her bet, but he frowned at having missed one. He reached out for the book, to see the page again.

“Oh, you want to know which one you missed?” Dalia asked. “You are a good student!” She opened back to the test page and looked at the questions, then held it up to Truman. Truman peered at it. He’d had to guess on that one, as he didn’t remember what a “nave” was, so he’d circled the answer “pulpit” even though it didn’t fit the analogy.

“It’s okay. I don’t know that word either. Some of the questions are harder than others. I don’t know why. I’ll go tell Doctor Jack the good news, Professor!”

As Dalia skipped from the tent, singing nonsense syllables as she went, Truman sat down on the ground.

“Nice kid,” Ramona said from her chair.

Truman nodded. “Yeah. She deserves better.”

Ramona gave a remarkably lifelike giggle—light and chiming. It was much nicer than Lucy’s horsy, snorting sort of laugh, though it mostly made Truman miss that familiar sound. “Truman, we all deserve better,” she said. “Why do you say it about her and get yourself all upset and down?”

“I don’t know,” Truman said. “It actually makes me feel better, thinking there are still people like her.”

“You’re so funny, Truman. You crack me up.”

If he stretched and wedged his shoulder between the bars, Truman could just reach the wagon and take some more books. He wanted to see if there were more words he’d forgotten.

Will bounced up, then his butt smacked back down on the metal bench, as the wagon trundled over the remains of an ancient road. The vehicle had obviously been built from cannibalized parts of trucks, so it had some shock absorbers, but there was only so much they could do. There really wasn’t anything left of the pavement.

“Should’ve told you to bring a pillow like everybody else,” chuckled Garrett, the older guy who sat across from Will. His short hair was grey, while his mustache and scraggly beard were still mostly dark. “You’re gonna be black and blue after this.”

“Yeah, I’ll remember tomorrow,” Will said.

Chris, sitting next to Will, offered him a cigarette. The kid was young, blond, still had some acne. Will took the cigarette and dragged it under his nose. It wasn’t corn silk, like he was used to. The last time he’d smelled real tobacco, he’d been a kid and didn’t even smoke. Back then he’d thought it was gross. That last year in school they’d even told him all the “Just Say No” stuff.

“Real? Wow. Thanks,” Will said.

Mike, sitting next to Garrett, handed Will a lighter. “They don’t have that where you come from?” Mike asked.

Will lit up and couldn’t help but cough on the first puff, and everyone else in the back of the wagon laughed. The driver, Jake, on a bench in front and slightly above the others, turned and joined in too.

“No,” Will wheezed after a pause, handing the lighter back and laughing with the others. “Somebody showed me how to roll and smoke corn silk cigarettes, but this is the first real one I’ve ever had.”

“Ah, you had it rough where you lived,” Mike said. “You’ll like it here—cigarettes, booze, movies, women.”

Will smiled and played along. “Oh, yeah, it’s great. I got a girl though.” They all laughed at him again, and he determined to keep quiet about more stuff.

Mike held up his left hand, showing his wedding ring. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Jake’s married, too. I don’t know about these two fags.” He shoved Garrett playfully, who punched his shoulder. “But it sure is nice to look. Or even touch. We’ll take you to one of the titty bars one day after work.”

Will smiled but didn’t answer. He leaned back some, looking along the side of the wagon at all the different containers strapped and bolted to the sides, there for them to fill on this foraging mission into territory outside the city. He brought his gaze forward to the two big horses pulling them. The second drag from the cigarette didn’t hurt, and sent a nice rush through him.

“They’re quieter,” Garrett said.

“What?” Will said, returning his attention back to the inside of the wagon.

“The horses. That’s why we use them. Run an engine out here and there’d be zombies from all over headed our way. You know how they love noises, especially engines, machines, that kind of thing. There aren’t many left, wandering free, but we still don’t want to get any more attention than we have to.”

“Makes sense.”

“Saves fuel for the city too. Speaking of which, that’s what we’ll be working on mostly in the town. We’d been going to the truck stop up north, but last week there were just too many zombies around. The city patrol will take care of them and we’ll go back there, but for now we got to check out other places.”

“City Patrol?” Will asked. Shit—that weird, gorgeous gal Julia had said that’s where they’d taken Lucy. “What’s that?”

Garrett eyed him a bit before answering. “Some zombies they got kinda tamed. Not really, but they feed them and shit. Makes them want to hang around and do stuff, so they send them out to kill other zombies when the foraging groups find a spot that’s too hot for us. They haven’t been going out so much, since things quieted down, but we need that truck stop. Lots of fuel there. Besides, don’t want them to get lazy. Lazy zombies on the dole—that’s a hoot. That fat guy on the radio would have a helluva time making fun of that.”

The men chuckled again. Will couldn’t join them, knowing Lucy was out there, fighting, maybe getting hurt. He had to get her out. He’d do whatever it took, but for now he didn’t see anything he could do, other than working to earn the money so he could then go looking for her.

“Anyway,” Garrett continued. “We’ll pull up near the one gas station and fill up the Jerry cans. There shouldn’t be any of them around, but keep an eye out. Your application said you had extensive weapons training. With what?”

Will shrugged. “Anything.”

“Anything?”

“Not cannons or grenades or something like that. But yeah—any handgun or rifle or shotgun.” Will shifted uneasily and left out any mention of how he’d been taught not to shoot dead people unless he had to. That definitely didn’t seem like something that would go over well.

“Yeah? You think you’re good, kid?” Garrett’s tone wasn’t exactly hostile—he was even smiling—but it had that familiar, masculine air of mockery and challenge.

“Well, sure. I mean, everyone in my town learns to shoot. You get good at it with enough practice.”

Garrett reached under the bench and slid out a long, plastic case. “Hey, Jake,” he said. “Hold up a minute.”

The wagon stopped as Garrett opened the case. Will recognized the rifle inside as an M4. Great gun. He didn’t usually see it with a scope and silencer like this one, though.

Garrett offered him the weapon. “I don’t usually waste ammo, but I like to know what the other guys in my group can do,” he said. “You know what I mean?”

Will took the rifle. “Sure.”

Garrett’s hazel eyes narrowed as he tilted his head back. “Up on that hill behind you. I think it’s a gal.”

Will turned. The figure was just barely identifiable, swaying side-to-side. It seemed to be approaching them with a slow, uneven gait. Will raised the rifle, settling the eyepiece of the scope to his eye. Garrett was right. It was a woman—naked, emaciated, her hair nearly the same sick grey as her skin, her jaw slack. She couldn’t seem to move her left arm, and all her motions had a jerky, involuntary quality to them.

“Shit, I can barely see her,” Chris said in a low voice. “You can’t hit that.”

“Yeah,” Garrett said. “But for a guy with a lot of practice, it’d be easy. So—that shot too hard for you, kid?”

Will tightened his grip and started to sweat. He needed this job. “The shot’s easy,” he whispered.

“Good. I could use a good shooter in my group. These three are useless most of the time. A guy who could really shoot could make some extra money. So do it and let’s get going.”

The woman’s eyes were the only part of her that looked dark, and oddly, though they resembled blank, empty holes, they seemed the only part of her that was vital and real. It was crazy to think she might be able to see him, but Will had one of those moments when you’re convinced of something, regardless of its senselessness. Whether that deep, steady gaze he imagined were accusatory or imploring, however, remained completely uncertain. Even when he could force himself to see it as making some urgent request of him, he still could not decide if it were asking him to pull the trigger.

Through a huge effort that made his head hurt, Will forced all such thoughts down, pressing them into a hard, sharp lump at the base of his skull. That woman didn’t see anything. She wasn’t even a woman anymore—not even a “she,” more like just an “it.” She wasn’t a real person. He needed this job. He needed the money. He exhaled as he pulled the trigger.

“Damn,” Chris whispered as the body crumpled to the ground.

“Shit,” said Garrett as he took back the gun. “I thought for a second you were bullshitting, but you’re for real, kid. Might have to call you Deadeye from now on.”

“Yeah, you might,” Will said, looking down at his boots.

So what if he’d shot her in the knee? So she could lie there for God knows how long, looking up at the sky? What kind of mercy was that? What kind of respect for humanity did that show? Maybe it was worse than shooting her in the forehead. Would he have been able to put the gun down, if it’d been Lucy up on that hill? She was part of the reason he needed this job, and now he had to kill or maim others like her. What sense did that make? What was he doing to himself? Such doubts made Will’s head continue to ache. This was going to be a long, shitty month.

The room was still mostly dark when Lucy heard the blast of a car or truck horn outside. The four women got up, while the sound repeated several times.

“Food men want something,” Carole said to Lucy. “Patrol, probably. We haven’t been out for a while. Get a weapon.”

Carole went to the pile of weapons stashed under the furniture in the back of the room. She picked up the fire poker she usually carried around, while Becca took an aluminum baseball bat. Christine stooped down and got a crowbar. She lifted her shirt to stick it through a belt loop in her baggy pants, and Lucy saw that her stomach was ripped open. Her ribs poked out from flaps of dried skin around an opening that extended from her waist to the middle of her chest. She was hollowed in the middle. Her breasts were missing, too—just some shreds around scabbed flesh. Lucy couldn’t help but stare at the mysterious cavity, dark and dusty, with so much of the poor woman missing. Christine pulled her shirt back down.

“What?” she said to Lucy. “It doesn’t hurt. We all have stuff like that.”

Lucy looked in her eyes. “No, it’s just—it made me wonder. What we were like before. What you were like.”

Christine shrugged as she picked up a broken table leg; it was dark wood with a big, round knob at one end. “I don’t remember. Fat, probably. Me—not you. You were skinny. And pretty.”

Lucy took a golf club and put it back. Those could break. She chose a shiny pipe about two feet long. It flared slightly at one end, and tapered at the other, like the pipe for one of those machines you pushed around the house to suck up dirt. She couldn’t remember the name of the thing, but this part seemed like a good weapon—light and strong.

“Thank you,” Lucy said. “You’re not fat. But it made me think of babies, if we had any. Do you think you did?”

Christine patted Lucy’s shoulder. “Maybe. I’m sure if I did, they’re all dead now. It’s just what happened. You think of yourself now.”