Bury Me in Black

  BURY ME IN

  BLACK

  SPECIAL THANKS

  To Christina for poring through this thing and finding my legion of grammatical errors. To Maile for the beautiful cover art and to

  Stephen for the eye-catching design.

  And, in no particular order, to the people who have and do deal with my bullshit on a near-daily basis: my lovely mother Denise, my sister Stephanie, Esteban, Henry, Isaac, Leela, Cassie, Kaeyli, Kate, Devon, Mercy, Shimmy, all the Mike’s (especially you Mike, you were always my favorite), Tom, my uncle Kevin and my idiot cat Bob.

  And my father. For everything.

  To my first love. You supported me when I was nothing.

  I’m still nothing, but I’m working on it.

  OVERTURE

  FROM ON HIGH, a drone looked down on Covington. It hovered below the clouds, no larger than a winged housecat. The machine resembled a small model jet with one propeller beneath each wing, willing it forward, covert and quiet as a whisper. Upon each of its steel wings was a tiny red light that would come aglow and then fade away like the end of a cigarette. Were it a jet, the camera hung just below where the cockpit would be, like a gobbler dangling from its chin. The drone was static, floating forward in a perfectly straight line, but that camera was alive. It rotated in place. It zoomed in and out.

  It saw.

  Below was the shady outline of a New England town. None of the street lamps were lit. There were no headlights, no hum of distant engines. From high above, it appeared as if the town itself had settled into a deep slumber. The darkness travelled for miles on end. Three towns total, all dreaming, as if someone had flicked off a light switch and shut the whole thing down.

  The machine travelled south, past the copper castle of an Armory and the empty storefronts of the city proper. Down, further and further, to a long stretch of highway with mountains and tall green trees on either side. Past a few more exits it halted, finally, at the site of a barricade that stretched the entire two lanes of road, cutting off the three towns from the rest of the world. There sat the savage weapon, two stories high. Death’s hammer, composed of heavy steel. Always hungry.

  The drone glided overhead, in no rush. Below, there were dark black skid marks in the road, spanning a good twenty feet and halting at an overturned vehicle. In another life it had been a sleek two door sports car. Now it was flipped over onto its hood. The windows were busted out and holes had been chewed through near every inch of it. The paint had burnt off entirely when the engine blew. Everything was a charred brown-black now, frozen mid-melt like a Dali painting.

  All around it were other cars, which had suffered the same fate. The entire area had the feeling of a strange sort of modern art. The vehicles—between fifteen and twenty total—lay in different positions several feet from one another. All annihilated and dried out beneath the sun. It looked so perfect in its randomness, as to appear staged. The drivers still sat inside, decomposing. Some had been burnt alive, while gunfire had taken others. The last of them, the one who’d gotten closest to the building was a humvee. It stood slumped forward, both front tires flat, punctured by the onslaught of bullets. In the shadows of that husk, through the burnt and busted out windshield, were a driver and passenger. They’d gotten a full thirty feet or so further than anyone else.

  They’d won the race.

  ~

  To the north, away from the drone’s wandering eye, Nathan Conrad couldn’t sleep. He sat upright and then grunted as he stood, more out of habit than from his actual physical discomfort. Of late, his old aches and pains seemed to have dissipated. Save for his throbbing jaw and injured hand, he felt twenty years old again. Life’s little miracles.

  Conrad dipped his feet into the slippers he left bedside. Musty looking things, truth be told, and mint green. In a white tank top and old basketball shorts, he stretched. His right hand was heavily wrapped, with a speck of blood showing through. His bandages would need to be changed soon. The gash in question was a puncture wound between his middle and ring fingers. He still didn’t dare try to flex them; the pain was damn near blinding.

  The house wasn’t much, but it was plenty of room for him. He gazed out the window beside the front door, parting the blinds with the fingers of his good hand. The dark was thick, the moon hidden behind the clouds. Out there, for hundreds of acres in all directions, was nothing. His current home had once been a nature preserve. Untainted land, surrounded on all sides by thick green life. Next door was a nature museum that he hardly ever spent time in. The place was full of stuffed foxes and deer and bears, all positioned in those action poses. All gathering dust. The owners and proprietors of this place had stayed in the house where Conrad stood now, for decades. They all had the surname Ashe, down three generations. Until now.

  Conrad had never even met an Ashe.

  In the kitchen, he opened a cabinet. Inside were glasses and mugs. He removed all the mugs, eight total, and set them on the counter. One by one he examined them, checking the grip, feeling the weight. With his good hand he held each of them and made a quick motion as if he was splashing water in someone’s face. He settled on a plain white mug. Then he filled it with water.

  He set the mug down on the kitchen table. It was a small, square thing, with two chairs facing one another: one with its back to the wall and one with its back to the front door. Conrad knelt beside the table and reached underneath. Duct taped to the bottom was a pistol: a black M9 Beretta.

  He ejected the clip, taking out all of the bullets and lining them up on the counter. The final round, he took from the chamber. Conrad pulled back the hammer and squeezed the trigger and the gun harmlessly whispered click. He placed it back beneath the table. The duct tape was worn enough that it acted more as a harness than an adhesive. The gun was able to slide in and out, without truly sticking. Conrad sat, his back to the wall, eyes facing the door.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Conrad held the coffee mug in his good hand, readying himself. Then, he quickly tossed the contents of the cup at the empty chair. In the same motion, he set down the mug and reached beneath the table, grabbing the gun and raising it up. Click. He shook his head. Not fast enough.

  He refilled the mug with water. Again, his arm snapped forward and emptied the mug onto the chair in front of him, in one push-like motion. This time, rather than set the mug back down, he dropped it, then reached for the gun, pulled it up, aimed, click. He cursed aloud. Still too slow.

  Six more times he tried. On the sixth try, he dropped the mug and it rolled off the table, cracking as it hit the tiled floor. He got another mug. Seven more times, he tried. Another ten after that. He broke two more mugs, but the motion was becoming more fluid. Each time, he tightened something up. Splash, dip, pull, aim, click. Splash, dip, pull, aim, click. Splash, dip, pull, aim, click.

  Splash.

  Dip.

  Pull.

  Aim.

  One glance down the sight, at that empty chair.

  Click.

  He was ready.

  Conrad mopped the kitchen floor, which was dotted with little puddles, and wiped down the chair. He then loaded the gun and placed it back beneath the table. And left it there.

  ~

  Conrad’s stomach was a knot, but still he needed to eat. He opened the kitchen cupboard, immediately nauseated by the contents. Inside were rows and rows of the same thing: canned food, all of them marked Shokuji Brand. The labels came in different colors to signify different microwavable meals. The food itself, on the cover, was impossible to identify. Nondescript meats, covered in gravy. He’d separated the cans by color. This one was green, that one red, that one yellow. Only one word on the can was written in English: Shokuji.

  He shook his head and close
d the cabinets. No, not tonight. Then, a lightbulb went off. He walked to the fridge, opening the freezer door, and dug deep, past the T.V. dinners and the ice packs. There, in the very back, was buried treasure. A rib-eye steak.

  Conrad cut off the portions that were freezer burnt, and then cooked it in a pan. Medium-rare, just how he liked. He ate it dry, without a side. No matter. After months and months of that generic Japanese slop, nothing had ever tasted better. The only issue, given his bum hand, had been cutting the damn thing.

  He checked the clock on the wall. Still more time to kill. Conrad grabbed a pencil and retreated to the living room. A green recliner sat alone, with a couch behind it he never used. The television, too, was desperately in need of a dusting. He wondered if the thing was even still plugged in. Stacked beside the recliner was his last true pleasure in this world: newspapers.

  Yellowed from the sun, the papers stood nearly as high as his recliner. He took the one from the top, the most recent edition, and leafed through it until he found the crosswords. The puzzle itself was smudged with lead, as if someone had written the answers and then erased them several times over. Conrad tapped his pencil against his bottom lip. Got it. He began to fill out the puzzle, never once pausing, never once stumped. Tiger. Opening. Cost. Venue. Portland. See. Up and down the rows and columns he went, until the thing was done. It took him maybe ninety seconds. Next, he flipped to the sports section.

  This page was at least a little more challenging. He held an open palm in front of the NBA box scores, so that he couldn’t see. Then, he’d think of a score. Jazz 87, Celtics 82. He moved his hand slightly lower, to reveal: Jazz 87, Celtics 82. Again, a thought: Lakers 101, Clippers 99. Again he moved his hand, again he made it so. Lakers 101, Clippers 99. He did this down the entire page. Then, he grabbed another paper and did it again.

  Conrad got up to go to the restroom. He walked through the empty house, stopping at the end of the hall, and entered the bathroom. Windowless, the tiny room was dark. He tugged on the chained overhead bulb, which flickered on. He glanced in the mirror, halting at the sight of his own reflection.

  Nathan Conrad’s head was shaved clean bald. His face was gaunt; appearing both grizzled and sickly. Five o’clock shadow clung to his cheeks. His skin was pale as milk, and tiny blue veins ran streamline across it. But, the eyes were what stood out most. Deep-set and sucked into the sockets, and red. The irises themselves were colored that unnatural hue. Even after all these months, it was still a jarring sight to behold. Surreal, even. He splashed water on his face, pondering what it would look like to wipe his face clean and see his old features return. Healthy pink skin and deep brown eyes. Conrad grabbed a hand towel and wiped. No luck.

  That’s when he heard it.

  In the distance, he could hear a motorcycle engine. Still twilight. He swallowed hard.

  He’s early.

  Conrad stepped back out into the living room. Past the recliner and the pile of papers, he moved into the kitchen. He filled a kettle with water and turned on a burner on the stove. Conrad knelt, checking the pistol one more time. Then he went to the window by the door, parting the blinds with the fingers of his good hand, and waited.

  That sound—that horrible sound—grew nearer. Another growling engine, fainter and deeper, took up the call in unison. And then there were lights. A trio of headlights, halting in the grass in front of his home. A car and a motorcycle. The figure on the bike cut the engine and dismounted. Conrad let go of the blinds. He closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath and exhaling. He unlocked his front door. First the deadbolt, then the knob. No use making them kick it down. Then he turned and went back to the kitchen table. He sat with his back to the wall, eyes facing the front door. He stuck a hand in his cheek, touching the end of one tooth. He glanced at the coffee pot on the stove.

  The biker at least had the courtesy to knock. Conrad obliged, yelling for him to enter. He did, sauntering in and chomping his bubble gum. Late twenties, he was young, handsome and clean shaven; with shoulder length black hair and tattoos running up one arm. There was weight on both his hips: two silver pistols sitting black leather holsters. He wore a sleeveless basketball jersey, showing off the nasty brand that had been seared onto his right shoulder. It was unmistakable: a capital letter B. The biker wore white sunglasses. He didn’t bother to remove them as he waltzed inside, halting a few feet away from the table.

  The cavalry was right behind him, this one blonde and burly. The muscle.

  “We’re looking for a girl,” the biker said. “You know the one.”

  “Right to the point,” Conrad said. The biker shrugged. “Mm. Well, there’s no girls here.”

  The biker took a few steps inside. He glanced around, looking over towards the living room.

  “I said she ain’t here,” Conrad said.

  The biker looked back at his comrade.

  “Search upstairs.”

  “Tell your meathead friend not to fuck anything up,” Conrad said. The blonde one gave him a dirty look.

  The biker grabbed his ‘meathead friend’ by the arm.

  “Be uhh…be nice about it,” the biker said, with a grin. His veiny buddy disappeared up the stairwell, and then it was just the two of them. The biker approached the table. “Can I sit?”

  Conrad nodded. The biker slid into the seat across from him. Conrad kept eye contact once he’d sat, but beneath the table he waved a hand. He felt duct tape against one finger.

  “I don’t see any bags,” the biker said. “You didn’t pack.”

  “Nope.” Conrad popped his p when he said the word.

  The biker scoffed.

  “You’re a fucking piece of work, Nate. You know that?” He tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “So?”

  Conrad tried not to glance at the coffee pot. Instead, he held stare with the biker. His sunglasses were bone white and impossible to see through, even this close.

  “Look. If she was here, you need to tell me,” the biker said. “Whether you want to be a part of this or not.”

  “You didn’t ask about my vitals. You always ask.”

  Behind his shades, Conrad figured the biker was rolling his eyes.

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s the same. Toothaches, back aches. Some episodes with the Pulse. You wait. Two years and no symptoms, save for the fucked up way you look…it’s actually exciting to finally feel something. I’m changing, for a change.”

  The biker smirked. He looked over towards the stove.

  “Your coffee’s up.”

  It took everything he had not to jump up from his seat. Conrad stood, slowly, and walked to the stove. He turned off the burner, reaching up to the cabinet. He was very aware of the kid’s eyes on his back. Inside the cabinet, four mugs stood in a semi-circle, while the fifth was separate from the group. Way off to the side. Funny, there’d been so many more of them just yesterday.

  “You want a cup?”

  “Can’t. It makes me jittery,” the biker said.

  “Suit yourself.”

  Conrad grabbed the one mug that was separated from the others. He filled it near to the brim. No cream, no sugar. He returned to his seat.

  “How long you been here?” the biker asked.

  “A while now. At least a year.”

  “People are scared of this place. It makes me jealous sometimes. You’ve got your own little fortress.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “The Armory is different. It isn’t just mine. This is your own place. A huge property.”

  Conrad glanced towards the stairs.

  “He’s taking a long time.”

  “He’s thorough.”

  Conrad sipped his coffee, careful not to burn his lips. There was silence.

  “Kid…what if you’re wrong about her?”

  “This again…”

  “Yeah,” Conrad said.

  “Like…if we’re wrong, it’s a terrible tragedy in a world full of terrible tragedies. It’s inconsequential. But if
we’re right…”

  “Your star shines even brighter.”

  “It’s not about that.”

  “Ain’t it?” Conrad’s red eyes finally came to life. “Weren’t you the one who told me: here in the q-zone, you aren’t anybody until you kill someone famous? That’s what this is. The ultimate pelt on the wall. And that’s why you’re here too. You probably didn’t even argue when they sent you. You were glad it was you. I’m no Stocker Wade, but I’m not a nobody either.”

  “Was she here that day? The day I heard someone in the other room? Tell me that at least.”

  Conrad was stone faced.

  “Fuck.” The biker sighed. He took off his sunglasses, setting them down on the table. His eyes remained low. When he raised them, they were as blood red as Conrad’s. Same as everybody else.

  “You know how this works.” he biker said. He spoke now with desperation in his voice. “You knew this would happen. Why…why the fuck did you hang around? You could’ve run.”

  The biker’s hand dipped beneath the table. A subtle movement. Nonchalant.

  “Running was never my style,” Conrad said. “What you do, that isn’t my style either.”

  “Come on, man.”

  “No, seriously,” Conrad said. “Did you honestly think I was gonna go along with it? Become a prospect with a gun full of blanks? Get a B burned into my arm? Do you even know me, kid?”

  The biker let out a deep, audible sigh. For a long moment, he and Conrad stared at one another, completely still. Then, the biker’s eyes shifted. He focused on the coffee mug. Smart kid.

  Conrad hurled the contents of the cup at him, and then reached under the table. The biker, seeing it coming, swiveled in his seat, pushing himself to one side so that the chair went up on one leg. The hot brew flew harmlessly over one shoulder. At the same time, the biker drew his pistol. The larger of the two. The six-shooter. The one he called the business gun.

  Conrad grabbed his Beretta out of the duct tape in one fluid motion and rose, ready to dispatch the kid.