Bury Me in Black Read online

  She couldn’t help herself.

  Justine moved through the empty house that night. She had time to kill, still an hour before David would sneak away from his sleeping wife to meet her by the fire. She walked the second floor, tiptoeing past this bedroom or that one. Only Benjamin roamed the halls at night, and his footsteps were loud and obvious. He never bothered to journey to the east wing, where she and David had their chats. Instead, he stuck mostly by the front door.

  Justine hovered in the windows, parting the curtains, looking out into the night. The moon was bright tonight. Outside she could see the sprawling, near endless property, beset on all sides by forest. Far off, she knew, there was a small lake bookended on four sides by weeping willows. She wanted badly to sneak out and see it. Maybe, with some convincing, David would take the journey with her. Then again, once outside, what reason would she have to ever return?

  She squinted suddenly, spotting movement. Down in the grass, two men were speaking. Each held a rifle, one in two hands, the other resting it on his shoulder. She thought of rushing back to warn Jacob or Benjamin or even David, but something seemed off. One of the men smoked a cigar. They each had relaxed postures; an air of nonchalance. Even from on high she could see it. These weren’t intruders, they were sentries. Ex-military, by the looks of them. She pressed a palm to the glass.

  Another cell, then. Another basement chamber, beneath a trapdoor.

  Fine.

  Justine walked back to the dresser, and her rectangular necklace box. She flipped it open, surveying the six unique pieces inside. Gold, silver, pearls; each was more magnificent than the last. To the far right, however, was her most prized possession. The one necklace she never wore.

  She held it up by the golden chain, which was as high-quality as everything else in the box. However, in the place of a locket or ruby pendant was a dented piece of gray metal.

  A bullet slug.

  This was the last remnant of Zeke. His final gift to her. She closed her eyes, and it was as if she could feel him out there, stalking in the night. The full moon at his back, sawed-off shotgun swaying at his hip as he waded through the mud. Dirty, bleeding, exhausted, but very much alive. He moved towards her, closer and closer, her savior.

  Her one true love.

  8

  -MOTHER-

  -Marco-

  WRISTS BOUND, Marco stood beside his captors halfway up the driveway. Leon, a hand on one hip, admired the gothic-looking structure.

  “Whatcha heard about it?” he asked.

  “Not much.”

  “Yer lyin. Let’s try that again. What have you heard about it?”

  Marco paused.

  “I’ve heard it’s like prison. Except there’s no guards. And everybody’s got a gun.”

  “That’s funny,” Leon said. “You make it sound so bleak.”

  “Am I wrong?”

  Leon chuckled.

  “C’mon. Let’s go.”

  The procession headed up the incline, and Marco staggered along with them. It felt surreal, being so close to this building he’d heard so much about. The Bloodline had been here from the beginning. Maybe this was why they’d outlasted all the other factions.

  Up the steps they went, under that main archway. Leon gave a nod to the guys up on the roof, who waved back. Then it was through the heavy double doors. Another man was on guard inside, smelling of booze, tapping a pistol on his hip with dirt-covered hands, fingernails near black with grime.

  Inside, the main atrium had the look of a small cathedral: high ceilinged and airy. Above, maybe half the lights had burnt out, but the others shone strong. The windows were tiny slits, hardly letting in any light. The floor itself was the hardwood of a school gymnasium. All around, basketball hoops were pushed up into the rafters, never to be used again.

  Row upon row of military cots lined the floors, separated by a few feet. Blankets were laid out beside them, crates and safes and suitcases stuffed beneath them. Owners of said bunks sat beside their beds or laid on them or stood elsewhere speaking in little cliques. Not quite civilized, but close. At the opposite end of the hall were some tables for dining and a long bar where men and women lined up to barter and trade. There were so many of them. The Armory was alive.

  From every direction, crimson eyes looked on, wary. Faces dirty; hair windswept. There was a woman for every three of four men, but regardless of sex, the age range appeared the same. In here, there was only a handful of children and no elderly. Nearly an entire society at or around their prime.

  Knox led the way, walking confidently through the rows of cots, a swagger to his step. In every way, he seemed to be Marco’s opposite. If the jersey-clad scavenger was made of water, slinking and slithering, then Marco himself was made of wood. His every motion was rigid, like a quick flinch. His life had been full of people telling him to “relax” or “ease up.” Massages hadn’t helped, or yoga, or even a brief stint in therapy.

  Marco followed at Knox’s heels, keeping his eyes low to avoid eye contact with the dregs surrounding him. It felt like every one of them looked on, judging him, sizing him up. Leon took up the rear. They halted before a large door on the right side of the room. A large man, maybe a head taller than Leon even, stood beside it, a silent sentry. He dressed in a long brown trench that halted at his boots. Greasy black hair hung in his eyes, unkempt. He opened the door and let them inside, closing it behind them.

  The windowless chamber was lit only by candlelight, the air ripe with incense. The room was incredibly plain. A writing desk sat in one corner, a cot and bookcase in another. Upon a rug in the center of the room, the woman sat alone, with her back to them. The room was all quiet, save for the smacking of Knox’s lips as he chomped his gum.

  “On your knees,” Leon growled. With a hand to Marco’s back, he guided him downward. His words were harsh, but his touch was almost gentle. Marco did as he was told. A chill moved through him. He tried to shake it off, eyes low.

  Mother had built herself quite the mythos in a short amount of time. He’d heard plenty of the rumors, dating back to his days at Outpost Four. To hear others tell it, this woman was named Gayle Tillman, daughter of the famed Lester Tillman, longtime First Selectman of Covington. There were no term limits for selectmen, so elected officials up here could get the job and hold court forever, so long as they’d garnered the favor of their people. As far as Marco had heard, Les Tillman had been more than well liked. He’d been beloved.

  Gayle had her own share of successes. She’d been an attorney in New York, though Marco couldn’t recall what type of law. Semi-retired, she’d returned to her hometown and continued to practice, while moonlighting as a sort of herbal healer. When the quarantine walls went up and people needed a place to turn, she’d been one of the few to speak up.

  All these years later, and the Tillman name had still meant something.

  As the story went, she then took up root in the Armory. Marco figured this may have been her greatest accomplishment: happening upon the most fortified location in town. It truly did have the look of a castle, at least from the outside, brick red and up on high ground.

  She gained more followers, and somewhere along the line, over the course of two short years, things changed. The group huddling together beneath this roof had named themselves the Bloodline and their leader took on the moniker of Mother.

  That had been the last he’d heard of the Bloodline, some six months ago, just before he’d been deployed into the q-zone. Since then, Marco had been wandering the fringes of town, hiding out, speaking to know one. It appeared in that time that little had changed. The Bloodline were alive and well.

  “Anton says you brought me a Stray,” she said.

  “We did, Mother,” Leon said.

  “What is it’s name?”

  “Marco.”

  “Marco.” It sounded sour on her lips.

  She stood and turned to face them. The woman they called Mother was barefoot and dressed in a teal kimono. Her long gray
hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her taut face etched with wrinkles. She’d been pretty in her youth, by the look of her. There was a stillness about the woman, a patience and a knowing. Like she could read his mind, if only she cared to try. She bent low, surveying him.

  “How old?”

  Leon nudged him.

  “Twenty-one,” he replied.

  “So young. Look at you. You’re just a little boy. And you want to join us.”

  I want to live.

  “Yes.”

  She squinted.

  “You’ve been hiding out in the shadow of Garland. That would take plenty of resourcefulness, and patience too. A lot of patience. But, also…cowardice.”

  A roach skittered across the wall behind her. She put a hand to her chin.

  “We’ve had Strays before. They can be unpredictable. Unstable. Staying out there, alone, it isn’t good for people. You spend weeks, months, without any human contact and the mind can become diseased. You can start to hear things. Voices and the like. Do you hear things, child?”

  “No,” Marco said. “Only the Pulse.”

  “Hmmph.” This answer seemed to suffice. “He’s young. He could be groomed. Skinny, but not in the worst condition I’ve ever seen. Open your mouth, do you have all your teeth?” Mother paced as she spoke, every movement meticulous and graceful. “But, scars beneath the surface.” Her eyes flickered upward. “What do you think, Knox?”

  “I think he’s damaged,” Knox said, leaning against the wall. “Leon said he was talking to himself the whole ride over in the trunk, he just couldn’t make out what he was saying.”

  Marco locked eyes with the woman. She surveyed him once more. A quick once over, for all the marbles. She shrugged.

  “Do it outside.”

  ~

  It didn’t take long for a crowd to form. They emerged from those heavy double doors in droves, some taking seats on the front steps while others poured out into the street. Below them, at the foot of the steps, Marco knelt, wrists bound. He felt as if he were at the base of some great temple, ready to be sacrificed to a malicious god.

  Mother and Leon stood off to the side, level with Marco. Knox stood right in front of him. From his knees, his eye level was just at Knox’s waist. He couldn’t help but glance at those two pistols, both silver, one holstered on each hip. His arms hung beside them, one clean, the other dotted with tattoos.

  The guns themselves were both Colts: one a .45 and one a revolver. He drew the latter: the big gun, the business gun, and looked down the barrel, the blinding sun at his back.

  Beads of sweat dripped down Marco’s brow. Not even two days ago, he’d been a shadow. Completely hidden away, deep within the bowels of Covington. Out of sight and out of mind. It had all come so fast. He’d stumbled into the wrong people, twice now, and here he was. There were no more safe havens. No alleyways or trees or cars to duck behind. Inside the barrel of the gun, deep within that unending black, he could’ve swore that four little insect legs poked out.

  Oblivion.

  “Last words…” Knox droned.

  “Don’t! Don’t do this! Hey, please! You-”

  “Those are some shitty last words.”

  “Look, I’ll do anything! Please just, don’t!”

  The tears were streaming down his cheeks. Snot-nosed, he bawled. What a mess he was. There was such a thing as dying with dignity, he supposed, but save that for the action movies. Faced with the real thing, with the black of that gun barrel, he couldn’t help but scratch and claw.

  Plead.

  Beg.

  Lumbering footsteps sounded beside them, and seemed to draw Knox’s attention away, at least for a moment. The figure cast a long shadow over Marco. He could see Leon’s hulking form, just out of the corner of his eye.

  Like a big dog torn from a piece of meat, Knox managed only to snarl one word: “What?”

  Leon sucked his teeth, casually taking stock of the situation.

  “Just thinkin is all,” he said, tapping a foot. “Seems like a waste.”

  “Seems like another mouth to feed.”

  “True.” Leon turned to walk away. He halted, turning back. “It’s just…we could use someone good at tracking, don’t ya think?”

  “Pl…please,” Marco gasped.

  “Shut up!” Knox yelled.

  “Yeah, shut the fuck up!” Leon agreed.

  “I’m going to kill him now, if that’s fucking alright with you,” Knox snarled.

  “Of course, of course.” Leon stared down once more, squinting. “He does look like him though, don’t he? Gol-ly. Spittin image.”

  “Don’t do that,” Knox said.

  “Do what?”

  “You know what.”

  Behind those off-white frames, it was obvious that Knox was fuming. Something had hit a nerve.

  “He’s been out there a long time,” Leon said. “He’s gotta be good at somethin, right?”

  “Like fucking what?” Knox asked.

  “Tell em what you’re good at, kid,” Leon said. He snapped a finger. “Quick.”

  “I…I can run fast.”

  “Natural track star. He’s got the build. What else?”

  “I…ah, I know the towns! I’ve been out there! And…I-I can shoot!”

  “You can’t shoot,” Knox said.

  “I can shoot!”

  “Allegedly, he can shoot,” Leon said.

  Knox glanced back towards Mother.

  “Don’t look at her. Look at me. I got a feeling about this one,” Leon said.

  Marco could hear Knox exhale. He could see his fingers around the grip of the pistol. Tightening and untightening. The long-haired scavenger gave one more look back at Mother. She nodded. Knox bit his lip. He kicked up dirt in Marco’s face. And then he slammed his gun back into the holster.

  At the top of the steps, Marco heard a chorus of groans and then the crowd began to disperse. They looked like festival goers who had been told that the band wasn’t going to show up: it was all curses and mean mugs. Knox stormed off, and Mother too must have slithered away, because after a long moment Marco found himself alone with his hillbilly savior. Coughing, on his knees, in a cloud of dust.

  He was suddenly filled with manic energy, heart pounding, breaths short and shallow. Such was the confused euphoria that came from near-death. He remembered that life was a miracle, a gift, to be cherished. He promised himself, then and there, to remember this fact. To hold onto it.

  At least until he forgot again.

  “Ay man…you hungry?” Leon asked.

  Marco was flushed, at a loss for words. Looking up at the man, he nodded.

  Leon pulled a ring of keys from his pocket. He knelt.

  “Hold out your wrists.”

  9

  -RAG & BONE-

  -Justine-

  IT WAS DATA OVERLOAD. Everything was familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. She’d seen this barn, this road, this parking lot, but they were different now. The town had up and ghosted and what remained felt weird but nostalgic, somehow simultaneously. This was still the world she’d known, she was sure of it, but something was always off. This was some Twilight Zone shit. It as if there was a new world order, but she had gone and slept through the revolution.

  Bummer.

  On the roadside in hilly Ridgewood, the blonde man looked at her and nodded in the other direction, towards the nearest property. She followed.

  Past the red barns with the peeling paint and the tillers and tractors left to rust, was a quaint looking little beige house. The man led her inside.

  That night, he ate squirrel in the living room of that abandoned house. She sat on the couch, he on the floor across the room. He’d been carrying the disgusting thing around all day, it seemed, and cooked it in the backyard over a makeshift fire. He sat with his back to the wall, knees up, nibbling away at its midsection. He was a ravenous eater, face smeared with blood. Every now and again he’d wipe his cheek with the back of one hand. He didn’
t bother to look up at her.

  She’d been freezing ever since they’d left the library. She fastened each palm to the opposite bony bicep, clinging tightly.

  “Who are you?” she asked, finally.

  He finished chewing and swallowed.

  “Zeke.”

  “Zeke who?”

  “Just Zeke,” he said, taking another bite. “Eat. I left you some.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  He shrugged and continued his butchery of the poor woodland creature.

  “You were going to kill my father,” she said.

  “I was.”

  “Is that what you do? You just walk up and kill people?”

  “He was waving a knife at me.”

  “That doesn’t mean you had to kill him.”

  “He was a danger to me. I should have put him down. It was a mistake not to.”

  “You were playing with him.”

  “Was I?” he asked. He’d begun to pick at the bones, popping tiny morsels into his mouth. “Are you an expert on combat?”

  “No,” she spat the word.

  “Then how would you know my intentions?”

  She opened her mouth to answer but stopped herself, instead opting to fume in silence and let him finish his disgusting meal. He tossed it over his head, in the style of a hook shot, and across the room.

  “So...is everyone dead?”

  “Most,” he said, licking his fingers. “Not all.”

  “They got the same disease as my father. You have it too. It killed them,” she said.

  “No. The bug doesn’t kill.” He stared at her.

  “What?”

  He studied her a moment. He held up a finger, eyes peeled, watching her.

  “Listen,” he said, keeping totally still. He waited a long moment. “You don’t hear it, do you?”

  “Hear what?”

  He rocked back on his heels.

  “Interesting.”

  “What?”

  “Whatever it is we have, it hasn’t touched you. At least not yet.”