The Return Man: Civilisation’s Gone. He’s Stayed to Bury the Dead. (7 page)

‘I’m trying,’ he answered. ‘I really am.’

Dripping sweat, Marco circled the property outside the barricade and unlocked the main gate. He let himself back
into his yard and returned to the snare pole, where the ladder remained propped in position. Climbing to the top, he reeled in the cable and removed the arm.

It was an eerie weight, still floppy at the elbow. Touching it seemed to release a reserve of foul odour. He crinkled his nose and flipped it over the wall. It landed near the headless corpse.

Returning to the backyard, he entered the shed and pulled a plastic bin from a shelf next to the generator. He lifted the lid, and the stink of dead rabbits assailed him. Their matted bodies lay in stacked rows, about twelve that he’d poisoned out in the scrub before the Montana trip. He pulled one carcass off the top and brought it back to the snare to reset for another night.

Sometimes he grew impatient, considered setting up traps all around the barricade. But the fear of filling the air for miles around with the smell of meat, attracting more corpses than he could handle, always convinced him otherwise. The last thing he wanted was a feeding frenzy.

One lucky winner per day. That was the limit.

Except he hadn’t gotten lucky yet. No Danielle.

With a mixture of disappointment and relief, he finished his security check and headed back to the house. In the kitchen he scrubbed his hands, his wrists, his forearms all the way up to his raw elbows, scrubbing sadistically with soap and peroxide until there was no trace of the sticky feeling the corpse had left where it grabbed him.

His head felt clearer now, his throat less tender, so perhaps the Sudafed had done some good after all. He rubbed his eyes, and the bloodshot veins scratched against the eyelids. No monsters in the yard, which meant he could put sleep back on the agenda.

Upstairs, he replaced the Glock and bat in the closet. He wondered what the rest of Joan Roark’s day would be like
while he slept. He imagined her, too, crashing in bed, perhaps with a nice dose of Valium.

With a pang of conscience, he realised that he hadn’t reported back to Benjamin.

Shit.

Marco looked longingly down the hall towards the bedroom. The doorway beckoned, dark inside, the shades drawn, and he could almost feel the foam mattress conforming to his exhausted body. But he also knew that his friend was probably desperate for his call. The Montana trip had been longer than most others, and by now poor Ben might be thinking the worst–that Marco’s stripped bones were lying somewhere on a nameless mountain.

A quick check-in, that’s all, Marco decided.
Hello, my guts weren’t eaten, goodbye.

In the office he booted up the computer and waited for the satellite to locate a signal. Sometimes it took long minutes before the dish on the roof found a signal still reachable from the West, but today he got lucky; by the time he’d settled in his chair, the webcam window had opened and Benjamin’s phone line was ringing on the speaker.

Marco waited. The phone continued to ring. One minute, then two. He checked the time. Almost nine–he’d never had trouble calling this early before. Benjamin usually picked up fast, or, when he wasn’t home, the calls forwarded to his cell. Ben lived alone in Pittsburgh. His wife Trish–Danielle’s sister–had died during the Resurrection. Badly. Corpses had wrestled Trish from an Evac truck fleeing Scottsdale as Ben watched, screaming, restrained by Evac soldiers. He’d been relocated to Pennsylvania and languished for three years in Survivor Housing–state-subsidised tenements built by the Garrett administration to handle the influx of jobless evacuees. Finally, last spring, Ben had been able to afford his own house on the city outskirts. Bought and paid for
with ‘Corpse Cash’, as Ben called it. Income from twenty-six contracts.

Actually, Andrew Roark made twenty-seven.

The phone rang again. Fidgeting, Marco longed for the days before the Resurrection when an unanswered phone didn’t seem sinister. Now you never knew
what
the hell to think.

Could be Benjamin was just in the shower, or the can.

Sure. Or maybe there’s been a new outbreak of the Resurrection
, Marco thought, tensing.
And now the other half of America is fucked, too.

The phone rang another fourteen times. Marco counted.

Each ring shook his nerves a little harder, and he began to feel his flu symptoms battling back. The sweat, the pressure behind his eyes.
Come on, Ben.

Then a jarring click, and Benjamin picked up.

His face popped immediately on screen, close, soft-skinned and red, wearing the black wire-rimmed glasses that made him look like a beatnik poet. Ben was an artist, a painter. He’d shaved his head since Marco saw him last; he ran a hand over his scalp of blond stubble.

‘Jesus, Marco,’ he said, shaking his head.

‘You had me worried,’ Marco scolded. Absurd, but true. The instant he said it, he realised how easily frazzled he was becoming. He definitely needed the upcoming hiatus.

Benjamin’s blue eyes widened. ‘Fucking jeez,
you
were worried? Yeah, I get it–for two minutes you weren’t in total control. Try waiting three
weeks
to hear from you, asshole.’

Both men fell quiet, and Marco sensed that Benjamin felt as shitty as he did.

‘Sorry,’ Marco said. ‘That was a bad hello.’

Benjamin shrugged. ‘It’s okay, man, sorry too. I just didn’t hear from you, that’s all.’ He leaned back, hands behind his head, studying Marco. ‘You lost more weight.’

‘Yeah, probably.’

‘Not good, man. You have to eat.’

‘Can you not sound like my grandmother?’

Benjamin frowned. ‘I’m serious, Marco. You look like a prisoner of war. Like that guy Rambo pulls out of the water cage in
First Blood, Part II.
’

Marco laughed. He and Benjamin were the same age, but different in so many regards.

‘Whatever you just said makes me glad I never watched movies,’ Marco retorted. ‘But okay, point taken–I promise I’ll eat a few more Power Bars.’

He slowed as he spoke, noticing Benjamin’s gaze dart somewhere off screen. And then he realised that something actually
was
wrong–he’d been right to worry. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but Benjamin’s face seemed stiffer than normal, the lines at the corner of his eyes longer.

Tension.

‘Everything okay?’ Marco asked.

‘Yeah, man.’ But Marco could hear the distraction in his voice.

‘Okay then,’ Marco said. ‘The Roark funds cleared, right?’

This time he was certain Benjamin flinched. ‘Yeah, no problems with that.’

Too quick, too vague. Ben was always jumpy about the money–he didn’t report the income, since neither he nor Marco actually knew if what they were doing was legal–but not like this. Marco watched as Benjamin briskly scratched the back of his head.

‘So how was Montana?’ Benjamin asked. ‘I assume Roark’s done.’

‘If you call it that,’ Marco said. ‘The trip was hard. I had trouble finding him–three different stakeouts. It’s like that old expression about lost things, they’re always in the last place you look. Plus it rained the whole way back, and now
I’m sick. The end. You can have the details tomorrow. Right now, I really just want to crash into a nice, soft bed.’

He cleared his throat, watching Benjamin fidget. Okay. Enough with the guessing game. ‘So how about it, Ben–can you please just get the nerve up and tell me what’s wrong?’

Benjamin froze, his mouth open. Then he sighed. ‘Shit,’ he said.

Over the speaker Marco heard a murmur. Voices.

People.
There with Benjamin.

Marco’s index finger flew to the power button and hovered. ‘Friends over for coffee?’ he asked. He smiled bitterly.

Benjamin held his palm up. ‘Relax, Marco,’ he said, ‘it’s nothing bad–I took care of it. It’s just some men here to talk to you, that’s all. New clients.’

‘New clients don’t come talk to us. You go talk to them.’ Marco swallowed and squeezed the sides of his keyboard. He closed his eyes. ‘Goddamn it, Ben.’

Benjamin sat up straight, defiant. ‘I didn’t
invite
them here, for Christ’s sake. They found out about us. About you. Come on, man, you think I want house calls?’ He shook his head and settled back. ‘They’ve been here a whole week. Almost broke down the door to get in. I explained how it works… how I never know when the hell you’re due back. So they just stayed here–in my
house
–and waited for you. I didn’t have a choice.’

He pointed a thumb off screen. ‘You’ll see why when you meet Mr Personality here. And why I was going fucking nuts when you finally rang.’

Marco stiffened. ‘Don’t put anyone else on, Benjamin.’

‘Marco, man, you don’t get it.’ Benjamin’s face loomed larger. ‘I love you and all, but I
don’t… have… a choice.
’ He reached for the cam and twisted it. On Marco’s screen,
the camera panned sideways around Benjamin’s cluttered art studio. A glimpse of walls splashed with colourful, Pollock-type paintings, white tarps, free-standing easels…

Men in black riot gear, holding guns.

‘Oh,’ Marco said. Immediately he understood.

Another set of rules was about to get handed down.

The image on Marco’s screen convulsed as if broadcasting an earthquake. Alarmed, he scrambled from his chair and knocked his webcam up to face the ceiling. He had no idea who was about to pop up on his desktop–but goddamn if
they
were going to see
him.

The image settled, and in the frame appeared a pair of liver-spotted hands, folded, resting on Benjamin’s studio table. Seconds later the camera shifted again, and someone adjusted a light, and there Marco saw a man in his late fifties, seated at the table.

The stranger was attired in a blue dress shirt with a white collar–the telltale wardrobe of an asshole, in Marco’s experience. The man’s hair was white as well, mid-length, combed behind his ears; his eyes were an inch too far apart, his mouth too wide for his jutting jaw. He looked vaguely like a piranha. Marco instinctively disliked him.

‘Henry Marco,’ the man said, pronouncing each syllable and letter precisely. His voice was cool and soft, almost ladylike. ‘Are you there?’

Marco cringed. He hadn’t heard his full name in years, not since Danielle. Even Benjamin shunned it, by some unspoken agreement between them.

‘Yes,’ Marco answered. He coughed.

The man squinted at the screen. ‘Hiding? No need,
Doctor Marco. If you’re worried about being identified, it’s too late for that. I have over a dozen photos of you already in a dossier right in front of me. More photos, in fact, than I have of my wife.’

Marco waited, reluctant to talk. Not without a better grasp of what was going on here. The man obviously knew his name, knew enough to track him to Benjamin’s studio. Had even called him
doctor.
But Marco wasn’t about to get bluffed into revealing anything unnecessary. Nothing more than what the man had already deduced on his own.

As if reading Marco’s thoughts, the white-haired man held up a small yellowed photo by the corner. Marco saw himself in a tuxedo. He recognised the event. A fundraiser for the American Association of Neurologists, a year before the Resurrection.

‘You see, Doctor Marco, you’re not as mysterious as you think,’ the man said. ‘And I always come prepared to class. Shall we compare notes? Henry Carson Marco, born 1976, Philadelphia, to Albert and Caroline Marco.’ The man’s eyes were fixed to the camera, citing details apparently from memory. If he read from a paper off-screen, he hid it well.

The man continued. ‘The year 2006, graduated Weill Medical College, Neurology and Neuroscience Department, entered your residency at Cedars-Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles. The year 2010, married actress Danielle Pierce—’

‘You can stop,’ Marco interrupted. ‘I get the point.’

‘Yes? Then show yourself, and let’s introduce ourselves like polite adults.’

‘You go ahead,’ said Marco. ‘I’ll just listen for a while.’

The man shrugged. ‘However you’d like. I suppose it is my turn, in fairness, since I know your name. Mine is Owen Osbourne, Interim Director of the Office of Operations Coordination. We…’ He gestured with his head to the left,
then the right, acknowledging the others in the room as his hands remained folded on the table. ‘… We represent the Department of Homeland Security.’

Marco had perked up at the introduction. He recognised the man’s name. Owen Osbourne had been one of the prominent New Republicans, back when the party first gained traction.
I knew you were an asshole.
‘Those men with you,’ Marco asked. ‘Are they police?’

The man shook his head. ‘Federal officers, under my command.’

‘Am I in trouble?’ Marco asked.

The man–Osbourne–regarded Marco, not even blinking. The thumbs of his interlocked hands tapped against each other slowly, five or six times. ‘I’ve heard,’ Osbourne said finally, ‘that people refer to you as the “Zombie Hitman”.’

The non sequitur annoyed Marco. ‘You didn’t answer me. Am I in trouble?’

‘Doctor Marco. If you’re pushing for an answer now, then “yes and no” is the best you’ll get.’ Osbourne spoke as if admonishing a child. His nostrils twitched, and he exhaled. When he resumed, his voice had cooled again. ‘So, please. My curiosity first, then yours. Let’s back up, can we? I apologise for showing off–that heavy-handed reading of your biography. And referring to your wife was perhaps a low blow.’

Marco ignored the man’s last statement. ‘Fine. So what are you curious about?’

‘I’m curious about the Zombie Hitman.’

Jesus,
Marco thought. Was that really what people were calling him in the Safe States? How awful. Knowing Benjamin, the name was probably something he’d cooked up to help sell their services. Something ‘catchy’, Ben would say. ‘Marketing.’ Marco could protest, but he really had no control over what tactics Benjamin used to obtain leads.

‘How did you hear about me?’ he asked Osbourne.

Osbourne unclasped his hands and lay them flat on the table. He leaned towards the camera and spoke intently. ‘
Doctor Marco.
I’m attempting to be polite–under the pretence that this is a friendly conversation, which, as intelligent men, we both know is untrue. So, for a moment, let me set the pretence aside. If you ask
one
more question before answering one of mine, I’ll have your friend Mr Ostroff here sent to prison.’