Bury Me in Black Page 5

  “Hey! Fucker!” Scratch said, and drew his silver pistol. He raised it in one hand, sideways, taking aim at the figure in the distance. Marco pushed himself up against the window to see. The moon painted a silhouette in the distance. A lone gunman.

  Pop. Another one, this time near Scratch’s feet. He swore, dancing, and then began to fire wildly back. The sound of the shots seemed to reverberate through the car, close enough to make Marco’s ears ring.

  “Shoot the fucker!” Itch yelled. “Kill him!”

  Scratch didn’t need to be told twice. He emptied half the clip. Peeking his head just high enough to see out the window Marco watched. The far away gunman took his time with a reprisal. He waited, patiently, and then released one more shot.

  “AHHH!” the kid dropped the gun. “FUCK! AHHH!” He was on his knees immediately, holding one hand in the other. For a moment it looked like he’d dipped his right hand in gas, same as they’d done to Marco. But, no, the color was brighter than gasoline.

  “HE SHOT OFF MY FUCKING FINGER!”

  His brother went for the gun, but another bullet whispered past his ankles. Itch glanced once at the twin he’d shared a womb with, as he writhed in pain on the ground, and then took off running, leaving him alone to tend with his bloody hand.

  Kids.

  Scratch was still on his knees. He cursed his brother, then summoned the strength to stand. He glanced once at the shadow in the distance, then once more at Marco. He snarled, eyes wide with rage. And then he too scampered off.

  In the distance, the shadow faded into the night.

  ~

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Marco’s eyes peeled open. He hadn’t remembered losing consciousness. Had he slept? One way or another, his body had shut down. Maybe he’d succumbed to exhaustion or fainted, overcome by the moment. An overdose on tension. The sun was beaming down on him now and the car was hot. He awoke drenched in sweat, his body a brown-orange hue from all the damned gasoline that had soaked into his skin. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, forgetting that his wrists were still bound.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  It felt as if no time had passed since last night, like waking from anesthesia. One minute it had been night, the next it was day, as if God himself had flicked on a light switch.

  Outside, a figure was circling the vehicle, pressing his fingers against the hood. Tap, tap, tap. Marco raised his head, straining his neck to get a clear view of his latest adversary. The night from hell had continued into the day, by the looks of it.

  The man outside cleared his throat. He grasped the top of the car with both arms, stretching himself out, and dipped his head down to see in the broken window. He was thin and gaunt, with dark black hair that hung down to his shoulders. The man wore a yellow Lakers basketball jersey, number 8, his arms exposed. A sleeve of bright, colorful tattoos ran all along one arm, up and out of view. Oversized, off-white sunglasses covered his eyes. He adjusted them with one hand, chewing gum with an open mouth. He appeared beyond relaxed, in a wide, open stance, all his weight against the car. He surveyed the back seat, looking Marco up and down.

  “Hmmph,” he said.

  The man popped his gum. He looked bored. After a long moment he shrugged and opened the car door. Tucking his hands into his pockets, he sauntered away, back a few paces.

  And waited.

  Marco was hesitant at first to exit the car. When it was obvious that the scavenger wasn’t going anywhere, he gulped and then began to worm his way towards the opening, grunting as he worked. He did so with haste, every inch of his being screaming to get as far from this flammable death trap as possible. He wondered if the heat of the sun might be enough to spark him, and set him aflame. He spilled out onto the pavement, scraping his elbows. He noticed then that there were two figures standing before him, not one, both leaving tall shadows.

  The one with the long black hair whispered something to his partner and then snatched up the fallen pistol. Examining the weapon, he paced casually away, the sun framed over one of his shoulders.

  The other stood facing Marco, eyes locked on his target. He approached, drawing a bowie knife, and knelt. Before Marco could scream or squirm out of the way, the man went to work. Two quick snips to cut two zipties: one at his ankles and one at his wrists. The man backed up a few paces and put his knife away.

  “Fuck. He smells like shit, Knox,” the one closest to Marco said. He stood to his feet, this much more wholesome looking scavenger. He was in his early twenties, blonde and strong, his hair parted down the center. He wore a white tank top, showing off those broad shoulders and oversized arms. A silver combat shotgun was holstered at his back. Both men looked cleaner than anyone Marco had seen in ages. But their skin gave them away, wan, and teeming with thin blue veins. The one closest to him, the blonde one, had the red irises of a carrier. Behind him, the one with the shades—Knox—was probably hiding the same.

  “You know what happens if you run,” the man said. “C’mon. Up.”

  Marco stumbled on the first attempt to get back to his feet. He was still woozy. Running would’ve been an achievement. Wobbly and famished, Marco managed to stand to his full height. His legs were stiff. Everything ached.

  “Alright, strip,” the blonde man said.

  “Strip?”

  “Turn out your pockets and take off your clothes.” He cleared his throat. “Now.”

  Marco patted his pockets. His cigarettes were gone. Lighter too. Marco’s shirt, sweat-drenched, was stuck to him, but he pulled this off. Pants next, then socks. He tossed each article over to the man, who rummaged through them and then tossed each aside when he found them empty. Soon, only his boxers were left.

  “Them too,” the man said.

  Marco cringed and took them off. He balled them up and tossed them. He cupped a hand over his manhood.

  “Twirl around. Slow. I’m serious. I like this about as much as you do, man.” He shook his head in disgust. “Heh. Maybe a little less.”

  Marco gritted his teeth and did as he was told.

  The blonde man rubbed his chin, perplexed.

  “Ain’t got no marks. Where’s your marks?”

  “Marks?”

  “Don’t play dumb,” the man said, pacing now. He pressed a thumb to his right shoulder, where a capital letter B had been seared into his flesh. “Every faction has one.”

  Marco’s eyes lingered on the brand for a moment.

  Bloodline scavengers. He knew plenty about them. Most all of them lived at the Armory, maybe twenty miles southwest of where they stood now. These boys are a long way from home. What are they doing way the hell out here?

  “I’m…I’m not in a faction,” Marco said, standing awkwardly, hands over his manhood. The sun beat down on his naked body.

  “He ain’t in a faction,” the man chuckled, wagging a thumb at Marco. “The fuggs that make you, a Stray?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “If you ain’t got no peoples, you’re a Stray,” the blonde man said, pointing a finger as he spoke. “But I dunno if I believe that. I ain’t seen one a ya’ll in probably a year, easy. How bout you, Knox? You seen one lately?”

  Knox shook his head no.

  “See? Aright, put your fuggin clothes back on. You’re givin me nightmares here.”

  The man threw him back his things and Marco began to dress.

  “Where you from, Stray?”

  “Ridgewood,” Marco said.

  Liar.

  “No shit. I had some cousins in Ridgewood. Prolly dead now, rest em’. Where’d you go to high school?”

  Marco reminded himself to breathe.

  “Ridgewood High.”

  “Hell yeah. I’m a public school product myself. We used to whoop yall’s asses in football. Ridgewood…you’re the Chargers, right?”

  Prior to the quarantine, he’d never set foot in Ridgewood. The last time he’d played organized sports was the fifth grade. Soccer team. He’d lasted one season.

  “T
hat’s right,” Marco said, pulling on his pants.

  “Right,” the blonde one said, eyes growing narrow. “Name’s Leon. Me, I’m from right here in Covington,” he said, slapping himself in the chest. “Born and raised.”

  Leon was easily bigger than Knox, but without a single tattoo in sight. He’d been a perfect specimen once, by the looks of him. The golden boy quarterback who had probably banged every cheerleader in the tri-state area four or five years ago. That homegrown type who never leaves. The new world had changed him, though. Same as everyone else, he looked to have lost some weight. Emaciated, same as the rest. He had a scar on his neck, another on his chin. The wound to his right ear was the most obvious, however. A small chunk of the bottom was missing. The smirking brute had himself at least one close call, it seemed.

  “You lookin at my ear?” He took a step closer. “How bout I cut yours off? You gon stare then?” he asked. He drew his knife. “Now…where’s your friends?”

  “No friends,” Marco said. “I’ve been alone for months.”

  “You lie to me, and I’ll skin you the fuck alive. Believe that. I’mma ask again. Where’s your people?”

  “I don’t have people,” Marco said.

  Leon unclipped something from his belt. He tossed it over, where it landed at Marco’s feet. Silver glinting in the sun. Handcuffs.

  “Put those on,” Leon said.

  ~

  Leon pressed a pistol against his spine and led him to a building nearby. A barber shop. Knox waltzed behind them at his own pace, still chewing his gum.

  Out front, a small red and white barber’s pole was still spinning. Leon led him inside. The front windows were all busted out, but the bell over the door still worked. A row of barbers chairs were against one wall, each with its own mirror. Between every third seat, there was a small sink up against the wall. Leon pushed Marco down into one of the chairs. He sat there, looking at his own haggard reflection, while the scavengers moved behind him. Knox leaned in and whispered something to Leon. A response. A short conversation. And then-

  “You got a name?” Leon asked.

  “Marco,” he said, to Leon’s reflection.

  “Well, Marco, I’m gonna tell you how this is gonna play.” Leon slid into the barber’s chair beside him, slouching. “You don’t belong to me. Your ass belongs to Mother. You know who that is?”

  Marco nodded.

  “Now, when we get to the Armory, she’s gonna grill you, just like I did. But, she seems to always think of better questions. If she likes you, she’ll give you that famous ultimatum. You know the one. Join us or die,” he said, rolling his eyes. “If she don’t, my boy Knox back there is gonna take out his gat and blow your brains out the back a your skull.”

  Behind him, Knox smiled and gave a wave.

  “How long you been out here, all by yourself?” Leon asked.

  “A long time.”

  “What’s long? Months, a year?”

  Behind him, out of view, Knox was shuffling through drawers. He pulled out a pair of electric clippers, letting them buzz a moment.

  “Yeah,” Marco said. “Lost track of the date.”

  “Ain’t much of a talker,” Leon said, glancing over at his comrade. He surveyed Marco again. “Isolated, with no sense a time. I’d hate to be in your head, boy. Smart, though. Hiding so close to Garland. No one comes this close to the exile city.”

  “You did,” he mumbled.

  “Sorry, what’s that? Speak up.”

  Marco swallowed.

  “You did,” he said. “So did they.”

  “Yeah, I guess we did,” Leon said, flashing a smile. He looked up, distracted. Knox had reappeared. He hovered just behind Marco, chewing his gum, his face a mask around those off-white shades.

  Knox wore jeans and high top basketball sneakers. A pistol adorned each hip, hanging low on his belt the way that Han Solo had sported his blaster. He was clean shaven, well groomed.

  “Up,” Knox said. Marco glanced at Leon. “Don’t look at him. Up,” he said, slapping Marco on the back of the head. He stood. Knox nudged him towards the sink. “Wet your hair. C’mon. I ain’t got all day.”

  He did as he was told. With his long hair dripping wet, he was led back into the barber’s chair. Knox placed a neck strip on him, then shook out an apron.

  “Can’t be going before Mother lookin like that. You’re too ragged,” Leon said.

  “He stinks too,” Knox said.

  Knox spoke in a deep, honey-smooth voice. Always relaxed, never in a hurry. Marco felt like a statue next to him, his own words and movements stiff and spastic.

  “Mother, she likes boys with their hair short,” Leon said. “Luckily my boy Knox here, he was a barber in a past life.”

  Knox twirled a pair of scissors in his hand, like a cowboy with his six-gun. Then he got to work.

  One by one, the strands of hair fell to the floor, in a pile of black. The electric razor came next, shearing wet clumps from his scalp, until he was left only with a tight buzz. He took to trimming the beard next, which didn’t take very long, and then he applied shaving cream. Knox unfurled a straight razor and leaned in, so close that Marco could feel his breath and smell the bubble gum.

  He tried to distract himself by looking at Knox’s tattoos in the mirror. The ink he noticed had no rhyme or reason to them. No true importance. They were mostly cliché: the purple web on the elbow, the nautical star, the anchor. He’d draped himself in everyone else’s idea of tattoo. Nothing original. All of them picked off the wall, probably at the tail end of some epic bender, Marco surmised.

  As the scavenger worked, Marco tried not to think about how easy it would be for Knox to bring that blade across his throat. He tried not to image his own blood spurting out, a spray of red against that mirror, against his reflection. Knox grabbed him by the cheeks and chin as he worked, pushing him this way and that. There was something intimate about it, and utterly tense. His life was in this man’s hands.

  And then it was over.

  “Fuck, man,” Leon said, leaned against the far wall with his arms crossed. “Looks like a totally different person.”

  He’d been afraid to look up, but finally he did. In the mirror, an emaciated figure stared back, dirty, with skin pulled tight over its skull. A stranger.

  Marco began to rise, but Knox pushed him back down. He held him in place with one hand, and with the other, slowly wiped the blade on Marco’s shoulder, getting shaving cream all over his shirt. With his free hand, he pushed the sunglasses up into his hair, revealing those red irises.

  “You wanna know why we’re all the way out here?” he asked. The blade was on Marco’s shoulder, inches from his throat. “We’re looking for a girl. You seen her?”

  “I haven’t…” Marco gasped, “I haven’t seen…”

  “She’d be hard to miss,” Knox cut in, tapping a finger against the hilt of the blade. “She’s got long black hair, like mine. And blue eyes.”

  5

  -CLEAN-

  -Justine-

  EVERY NIGHT, she ran a bath. It had become her routine, a way to decompress. Her mother used to do it some nights, in a much smaller room, in a much smaller tub. She’d run the water and sit in there for forty-five minutes, maybe an hour, with a glass of wine and a cigarette. It had always seemed boring to Justine, to lie there submerged, alone with your thoughts, with no stimulation. No cell phone, no television. At least the beach had an ocean view and a breeze. That she got. But, tub time had always been a mystery.

  Now, finally, she understood.

  Twice more she’d joined David for a fireside chat. Her head was always swimming when she’d mount the stairs at the end of the session. They’d talk about a good many things, but more times than not the conversation would circle back to that one story: hers. They didn’t drop in or out of her tale at certain points. Rather, they’d simply get too tired and call it quits half a bottle, a bottle, sometimes two later. She loved the night. When the sun was out, she had
to remain buttoned up, formal, plastic. But, when all these rich snobs turned in for bed, she was able to let her hair down. First, with David, by that fire. And then, even better, alone in her room. There was no bolt on the door, but it didn’t matter. These people had too good of manners to ever barge in. She’d run the water and undress, slowly unburdening herself one item at a time. Rings, necklace, heels, fucking heels, hairpin, dress, contact lenses, undergarments. Naked and pure, she’d slip in. Head leaned against one end of the tub, feet up, she could finally exhale.

  The days dragged. Obviously, no one had a job, save the butler and the maid and the cook, so all that mattered was keeping up appearances. Dinner for this occasion, a ball for that one. His birthday, their anniversary. One couple actually got engaged inside the walls of Manor Crowe, and everyone was there to witness it all. Proposal, bridal shower, hell, there may have been a bachelor party, for all she knew.

  As for the wedding ceremony itself, they said they’d save that for once the military came and rescued them all from this place. They planned to marry at a church in Boston where his parents had done the same.

  “The amount of time I spend trying not to roll my eyes,” she told David that night, “I think I’m doing brain damage.”

  Ah, night. The sun would set and Crowe would invite everyone for a nightcap and then they’d all go off their separate ways. Like grammar school kids they’d file up the stairs in little lines, halting at each other’s doors to bid goodnight. She too took part in the charade. And then, an hour later, on the dot, she’d re-emerge, hair pulled back in a ponytail. She’d tiptoe down the stairs, careful to avoid the main foyer where the butler Benjamin was known to stalk, and into the east wing, where her only friend awaited.

  “Anyway, back to my story,” she said, filling a glass. “Up the ladder I went. Out into the world.”

  ~

  All the old sensations hit her in a wave. She shielded her eyes from the sun, shivering, her breath forming before her in little white puffs. She folded her arms to keep warm, her long legs already covered in goose pimples. She placed a flattened hand over her brow, saluting to block out the light as she looked up at the sky in awe.