Bury Me in Black Page 3

She nodded. A gentle smile crossed his lips.

  “Good.”

  He lit the white handkerchief, dipped it into the bottle half full with gasoline, and arched one arm back as far as he could stretch. A quarterback’s stance. He grunted as he released, chucking the bottle with all his might. They watched it sail, end over end, down into the abyss.

  2

  -THE STRAY-

  -Marco-

  TO THE DISTANT SOUND OF A HEARTBEAT, he awoke. It was a dull thrum, emanating from the back of his skull. From everywhere and nowhere. Sometimes it felt so dim he nearly forgot it was there entirely, other times it boomed so loud he felt as if the whole world might split in two. But always, always it was there.

  Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

  Marco opened his eyes.

  It felt as if he’d rested his eyes for ten minutes. A few blinks, a few winks, and then back to the cold, cruel world. Marco found himself ensnared in a wool blanket, his skinny limbs pulled tight to him on a brown leather couch. He had no pillow and when he stretched out his feet hung off the edge, but he didn’t mind. Not like he was sleeping much these days anyway.

  In another life, this had been a cozy corner office. The door was closed and the blinds were drawn, though a few beams of light were adamant enough to fight their way through. The couch was against one wall, an overturned desk by the other. The screen of a desktop computer was on the ground, shattered and crushed in like a dropped cell phone. Random paperwork was strewn about. The place was a wreck, just how he’d found it.

  He pushed the blanket aside, bounding to his feet. His movements were swift and rigid like a bird: far from graceful, but always near silent. He’d become skilled at making little to no noise. Marco walked to the blinds, parting them with two fingers, and stared out at the street for a long moment. He was tall and lithe, with bushy eyebrows and long, unkempt black hair. Skin milk-white, eyes that unnatural vermillion. He wore a stern, focused look at all times, as if he were eternally on high alert.

  Something resembling a beard marked his lips and chin. A feeble attempt at masculinity. It was patchy in some places, uneven in others. Marco wore it without choice. He figured it was the least of his problems.

  Two stories down, the streets were empty, the parked cars lining up beside the sidewalks in neat little rows. Serene, at least from the bird’s eye. Down below, up close, the scene was much less picturesque. There he’d find broken windshields, hoods and doors bruised by gunshots. A block down the road, Marco knew that a forgotten corpse was leaned upright in the alleyway. Who he’d been was a mystery. Just thinking about it, he could recall the image. The smell.

  Marco let go of the blinds.

  He wore a white t-shirt and sweatpants. Like all the clothes he owned, they had once been snug, but they now hung loose on his slender frame. Marco had a weathered look to him, a weariness that betrayed his youthful features. He moved back to the couch and knelt, reaching under the mattress, extending his arm almost up to the shoulder. When he pulled his arm out, he held in it a pair of silver dog tags. He balled a fist over them. This is my strength. Marco took a deep breath, letting his shoulders fall.

  Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

  Time to go.

  He closed the office door behind him as he stepped out into the main room. Some thirty cubicles stood side by side, all of them empty. All around the airy room, the vertical blinds were pulled shut, just as they had been in the office. Marco paced through the room with those short, stilted steps. At the end of the row, a little girl sat on one of the cubicle desks, her tiny legs dangling. She kicked them out: right, left, right, left.

  “Still day out,” she said. She had to be eight or nine years old tops, by the look of her. She wore a black dress and shoes, with white stockings up to the knee. A dark veil covered half her face. Her name was Shelby.

  “I can see that,” he growled in reply, passing by her without even a glance. He took the stairs down to the basement level; the elevator hadn’t worked in ages. The dank, dark basement was filled with stacked cardboard boxes and metal filing cabinets. Tucked beneath and within, he’d hidden his findings. An electric generator, bolt cutters, duffel bags. He dug through drawers and piles, grunting as he worked. Where had he put it? Finally, when his frustration had neared a boiling point, he’d found the item in question. A long black policeman’s flashlight.

  Halfway up the stairwell he found the girl seated on one of the steps. She swayed back and forth, too bored to sit still.

  “It’s dangerous,” she said.

  “I know it’s dangerous.”

  “You should leave the dog tags here.”

  He glanced down, noticing that the silver chain remained wrapped around one of his fists. His bottom lip quivered at he stared down at it. He hated leaving this place without it. She was right, though, there were dangers that came with wearing such an item. But, it gave him confidence. Like a rosary, it was something to remind him he was not alone.

  It reminded him who he was.

  He glared at the little girl.

  “Don’t follow me,” he growled.

  ~

  When the sun began to set he left out the backdoor. Marco travelled light. No bags, no weapons. Just the flashlight in hand, unlit. He didn’t wear the tags around his neck; rather he kept them balled in one fist. Cold steel, wrapped around his knuckles. He felt strong.

  The sky was a pretty shade of cream orange as the sun straddled the horizon. Marco rested the flashlight on one shoulder, wading through the overgrown grass. He left the city proper at his back, instead heading where the weeds grew thick and the trees stood tall. All this green life, it had been given two years to stretch its arms unimpeded. Grass and vine and root, all allowed to reach their potential without the trifling hands of man.

  Marco found a forest clearing, one spot some fifty feet wide where the brush parted enough that he could see the clear sky above, fading from orange to gray to black. He swallowed, throat bone dry. He could hardly remember his last meal. The empty void that was his stomach seemed to yawn; bottomless, empty. He would need water soon. His energy was low, he could already feel it. Dizzy, groggy, he wiped his sweat-drenched brow.

  The hunger pain was one of the few constants in his life, save for that damned drum beat in his head. Lately, though, it felt as if that deep burn in his gut was beginning to dim. Maybe he was getting used to it. Maybe he was dying. Who was to say?

  Marco took a knee and held a fist to his forehead. The wind whistled through the trees, rustling leaves. How similar it sounded to little footsteps, pitter-pattering over the forest floor. He opened his eyes, dazed by his own exhaustion. Out of the corner of his eye, he swore he could see her, that little girl, dancing in the shadows of the trees. Humming as she waltzed by her lonesome. He felt calm, suddenly, watching her move, eyes out of focus, unable to pinpoint exactly where she was. Her footsteps grew louder, suddenly, pounding against the grass. It came from one direction, then another, then seemingly from everywhere at once. Only when the steps reached him, when they were nearly right on top of him, did he come to the realization. Those weren’t Shelby’s footsteps. Someone else was here.

  He blinked, and his red eyes seemed to snap back into focus. He lifted the flashlight, ready to use it as a weapon. Too late. Something struck him about the head.

  Too hard to be a fist, he thought, falling back on his ass. A rock. Must’ve been a rock. It came down again and this time he could feel the ooze of warm blood. The flashlight slipped from his grasp. He slowly reclined, until his head hit the dirt and his gaze was skyward. Marco the Stray felt something tighten around his wrists. And then his vision dimmed to black. Only the sound remained.

  Thump-thump.

  ~

  Thump-thump.

  “Psst. You should wake up.”

  Marco slowly came to. He was seated upright against a wall, neck aching, head caked with crispy, dry blood. He could feel where it had dripped down onto his forehead and the back of his neck, settlin
g there and cooling solid like lava. Marco blinked, still only half there.

  “Hey!” The snap of little fingers. “You should wake up faster.”

  The little girl knelt before him. The room was mostly dark. He sat against the wall in a ransacked living room not dissimilar to the hundreds of ransacked living rooms that made up most of the three quarantine towns. Above him, the ceiling fan circled, whoop-whoop-whoop. The air felt good on his face.

  “Hey! Down here! Focus!” she said. “They’ll be back any minute.”

  Marco licked his lips. His mouth was still dry. He felt oddly calm, content to sit there in his own filth, utterly spent and defeated. Shelby urged him to hobble to his feet, to move, to do something, anything, but he simply shook his head. Marco blinked, finally completely awake. Only then did he realize that his wrists and ankles were bound together by zip ties.

  In the distance, he could’ve swore he could hear the roar of a motorcycle. Revving, humming, switching gears. He fidgeted, feeling the crushed pack of cigs in his back pocket.

  “I have to go,” she said, standing. “Good luck, Marco.”

  The little girl slipped back into the shadows. No sooner had she left, his captors returned. There were two of them, coming from different sides of the house, nearly in unison. Reflections of one another. They too had red eyes and pale skin, brown hair windswept and dangling down to their backs. They were quite obviously fraternal twins, shirtless and covered in all manner of dirt and grime.

  They wore boots and blue jeans, stained with dried liquids of every shade. The feral looking boys stared down at him as if he were a cut of prime rib: chests heaving in and out, ribcages showing. They had hairless faces and hairless chests.

  Kids. Teenagers.

  One held the flashlight, slapping it against the palm of his other hand like a cartoon character with a club. He’d taken Marco’s dog tags as well and wore them around his neck backwards so that the chain clung tight to him and the tags hung down his back. The other had a small silver pistol tucked into his pants. Marco’s eyes lingered there. Suddenly, the breath was gone from him. He forgot about the entire room around him. Forgot about the kids, or little Shelby, or his bleeding head. For a moment, it was just him and that gun. He tried to squirm away, to shield himself somehow. He looked up at the boys.

  The one with the gun placed a hand to his chin, surveying his bounty. With conviction, he spoke two words.

  “Barbecue chicken.”

  The other stuck out his tongue.

  “No! Pincushion!”

  “Don’t be a baby.”

  “You’re the baby!”

  “How about Passion Puppet?” the first one said, holding his arms out as if he laid upon a crucifix.

  “Did that last time.”

  “So? BBQ, then.”

  “I wanna stick em.”

  “You always wanna stick em.”

  “Well, then let’s stick em.”

  “He’d probably like that. Would you like that, faggot?”

  When Marco opened his mouth to answer, one of the boys spit on him. It hit him in the cheek.

  “Little girl got some spit on him,” one of them teased. “Wet like his little…pussy.”

  He covered his mouth as he said the last word, chuckling.

  “Is your pussy wet, skinny man?”

  “Yeah, is it wet?”

  Marco wiped his cheek on his own shoulder.

  “Uhh…boys?” he said.

  The one on the left jolted to life. He threw himself at Marco, slapping him across the face. He grabbed a tuft of his hair, hard, with one hand. The other pulled the pistol from its resting place at his waist and shoved it against Marco’s cheek. It was cold.

  “Not boys,” he said. “NOT! BOYS!”

  Behind him, the other kid had crouched down.

  “Oh!” he said. “I found a quarter!”

  The one with the gun released him. Just that quick, he was forgotten.

  “I’ll flip it,” he said.

  “You always flip it.”

  “Fine. I’ll call it.”

  “You always call it.”

  “Just flip it, dipshit.”

  “You’re the dipshit.”

  “Flip it!”

  “Don’t rush me.” He flipped it and, with the coin in the air, the other yelled “Tails!”

  Marco swallowed hard. He squeezed his hands into fists, making subtle twisting motions with his wrists in the hopes of breaking his bindings. He clenched his teeth. The one without the gun knelt and checked the coin.

  “Fuck! Tails.”

  The other one smiled and looked over at Marco.

  “Barbecue chicken.” He looked back towards his companion and nodded. “Go get it.”

  Marco could only watch as the unarmed twin walked away. The other clawed at his own hair, and then scratched his arms, trying to weed out whatever insects had infested his hair and skin. His brother had been doing the same earlier, Marco realized. In his head, Marco had begun to call them Itch and Scratch.

  He wondered how long these boys had been out here on their own. They’d been what—eleven—when the quarantine had been enacted? It was like they’d been crystalized in that age. Things like manners, family, morals had melted away in the two years. It seemed now that they knew only how to survive, and how to treat this new world as a game.

  Marco wondered how many others there’d been. How many playthings had come before him.

  Scratch stood with his legs spread wide apart, the silver pistol gripped in one hand. A power pose. He beamed as he stared down at Marco. When Itch returned, he had an item in hand: a gasoline canister, half full. He realized the meaning of the words then.

  Barbecue chicken.

  Marco began to thrash and writhe, trying to rip free from his bindings, to no avail.

  All the while, the two kids just stared.

  ~

  They dragged him outside. Halfway there, he was already covered in lumps and scratches. They took a leg each and walked side by side, one holding the half-full canister of gasoline, the other that shining silver gun. The moon was still out and they were all business, these two. No more squabbles. The coin had spoken.

  “Hey! Hey, please! You...you don’t have to do this! You guys, I have things! I can take you to where I’m from! I have food! Hey, c’mon...ow! I...help! HEY SOMEONE HELP!”

  His words trailed off into the empty night. Finally, they halted. Marco caught his breath and rolled onto his stomach, taking in his surroundings. They were back in the city proper. The business district, back where he’d started his day. Half a block down the road was the office he’d been squatting in. Ahead of them, a blue four-door compact car had smashed into a utility pole. The front of it was busted up beyond repair. Totaled, even in an age that had mechanics.

  It took both those little demon spawn to shove Marco inside the vehicle. He tried to kick when they grabbed him, and claw and bite, but neither kid got close enough to his mouth for him to do any damage, and his legs were bound at the ankle. He was helpless.

  They slammed the door behind him.

  Alone in the back seat, he began to squirm, with much more urgency now. He fought to get to one of the door handles on either side, ready to use his nose or teeth or tongue to prop the thing open. Not that it mattered. The twins would be outside either way, ready to shove him back in. Scratch tucked the stolen pistol back in his pants and uncorked the gas canister and poked it inside the broken window.

  And began to pour.

  3

  -TRAPDOOR-

  -Justine-

  IT WAS ALL VERY CLICHÉ TO HER, this room, like something out of a movie. This was the way a rich man’s dining room was supposed to look. The fine marble floor, the grandfather clock on the far wall, ticking and ticking away. That white-gold chandelier above them, it’s arms twisting and turning into a medusa’s head of hanging lights. And then there was the overlong table itself, draped with a cloth of royal blue.

  Everyon
e was in attendance. Over thirty men, women, children, all occupying chairs in the dining room. Jacob Crowe sat at the head of the table, of course, sipping his tumbler. Justine eyed him from the cheap seats, way at the other end, where a woman next to her was droning on about a public hearing in town. Apparently a group of residents had been all up in arms about a big box store’s attempt to move into their quaint little paradise. They’d fought it off, from the sound of it, convincing enough of the Planning and Zoning members to vote it down. There’d been more to it, for certain. A lot more. Sadly, her eyes had glazed over some two minutes in.

  Planning and Zoning. That story was obviously from two years ago, before the outbreak, but they were talking about it like it had just happened. These people were hung up on a different time. A different world. She suddenly felt the urge to look out her balcony window, out to the airy silence of the outside world. The endless, silent dark. Unfortunately, this room had no windows. Everywhere she went in this house, it seemed, the drapes were closed.

  Across the table, six or seven seats down, David looked up from his meal and smirked at her. She felt her own expression soften. There was something mischievous about the way he looked at her. Like they had their own naughty little secret that no one else was privy to. She liked the way it made her feel.

  The food was bland. There were several courses, the portions all miniscule, with plenty of attention paid to the presentation. The chef, sad to say, didn’t appear to be all that talented. She didn’t know enough about fine dining to know precisely where he’d erred, but it was obvious. The taste was slightly off, the arrangement of food too artsy for its own good. It had a sloppy look to it, like a painter with a shaky brush hand. She didn’t mind. It was certainly better than what she’d been eating out on the road. Still, she picked at her meal, mostly. Her appetite had waned recently, though she couldn’t say why.

  Three courses in, she got up to use the restroom. Back out in the foyer, the butler, Benjamin, waited in front of the main entrance’s double doors, arms folded. Odd.