Authors: John Hornor Jacobs
Tessa frowned, felt her gorge rise, and spat into the fire. That the dead could walk was bad enough; that they oozed and smelled like rotten pig and turned dark and noxious in the sun was worse. That they had once been human—had been children, had loved, owned houses and cars, bought tissues and bed linens, made desperate midnight runs to stores for milk and cheese—it was beyond imagining. God! It was awful. If they’d just turn into some other form less like humans, it might be all right. That they wanted to devour her made Tessa feel small and betrayed, and she couldn’t sleep well anymore, not like when she spooned with Cass, even when they had been trapped in the convenience store.
The execution of the undead was so impersonal it nauseated her. These men could easily do the same to living people, she knew. Captain Mozark had been in Bosnia and Iraq. She’d heard the men talk.
Montfredi took the gloves from her and began to paw at the laundry pot. He’d retrieved trash bags. He popped one open and, with a grimace, began to paddle hot, steaming fatigues and underwear into the shiny black plastic containers.
The clothes would have to be washed again, Tessa saw. She sighed and turned to Mozark’s tent.
Once out of sight of the lieutenant and away from the rest of the men, rifle fire still crackling behind her, she put her hand into her skirt, felt for the bottle. She withdrew it, popped the cap, and removed one of the d-Con pellets, kept it curled in her palm, now a little sweaty from her own excitement.
The stench of bile assaulted her as she entered Mozark’s tent. Her eyes grew accustomed to the low light, and she saw he was on his knees beside his cot, retching.
Tessa approached and stood above him, looking at his crooked shoulders, his bent back, as he retched into the dull green mesh of the tent floor.
“You’re . . . you’re a terrible cook, woman. You’ve sickened me.” He pushed himself from the floor and slumped heavily to the cot. “Bring me some water, whore.”
For a moment, Tessa stared at Mozark, thinking she should kill him then and there. Her body filled with a tremor that went from her feet to her hands, and she felt herself filled with an almost obscene strength. She flexed her fingers and leaned over the captain.
A little grin creased his ashen face, showing white gums and bloody teeth.
“You hate me, do you?” He coughed, and his nose began to bleed. “Niggers hate their betters . . . always—” He turned his head, partially rolled to the side of the cot, and vomited again over the side, a weak stream of pale yellow bile.
This is what it must be like to be unafraid. But I’m not. I don’t
want to die now. And the men will kill me, for real, if I strangle him. But I could . . . I could wring his sorry-ass neck . . . tell them he choked to death . . . but on what? Montfredi saw him throwing up
.
Tessa moved to the card table that served as his command post. There were road maps of Kansas and the Arkansas Ozarks, cigarettes, a bottle of wine, a battery-powered lantern, and a canvas-wrapped plastic canteen of water. Tessa crushed one of the pellets between forefinger and thumb, twisted off the cap of the canteen, and dropped the powder remains of the pellet into the canteen. She swirled it around and turned back to Mozark.
The captain dry heaved onto the crackly fabric of the tent’s floor. His once mocha skin looked gray and sallow. Tessa smiled.
She came to him, placed a cool hand on the back of his neck. He groaned and feebly turned his head toward her.
“Here, Captain. Here, baby. Here’s some water.”
“Ah . . .” His mouth looked red and bloody.
She held the canteen to his mouth, and he lapped at the water like a car-struck dog. Tessa looked at him for a long while. Her chest felt tight, and her heart hammered against her ribs as if it were too big for her body. She found herself smiling.
“That’s it, Captain. That’s it. Okay.” She took the canteen, stood, and went to the entrance flap of the tent. Mozark fell to his knees, then slumped on his side. His chest rose and fell slowly.
“It tastes . . . it tastes . . .”
Tessa pulled back the flap and yelled, “Lieutenant Wallis! The captain’s sick! Really sick!” She turned back to the captain. “There ain’t nothing as sorry to look at as an ashy black man down on his knees.” She squatted, gripped his hair, and turned his face toward hers. This man would suffer for what he’d done. “You ain’t no better than me. You a black-hearted nigger. But the difference between us is you’ll be dead soon, like the zeds, and I’ll watch when they put you down. Like you did my Cass.”
But he was too far gone to hear. When she let go of his chin, he slumped to the floor.
Standing, she cursed. Then she moved outside the tent and turned the canteen over, pouring out the water into the Oklahoma dust.
It was dark
and starlight washed the streets of Vinita in a blue glow. The growling, ratcheting sound of engines grew louder, and from the shadows of a doorway, Tessa watched as the corpses stumbled through the streets toward the fields only blocks away. She clutched her broken mop handle. One zombie moaned right next to her, and she gasped as the undead man lurched, belching putrid gas, and grabbed her.
He smelled like a sewer. Waves of septic stench and the rank odor of rotten meat made her gag and she felt her gorge rise in the back of her throat. Clutching the jagged handle, Tessa raised her fists instinctively, half to defend herself from the undead and half to cover her mouth from retching.
The pointed end of the mop handle caught on the zombie’s
chin and sank five inches into the rotting skull—through lower mandible, black rotten tongue, sinus cavity—tilting its head back. Something gooey snapped, and the head lolled to the side, dripping black ichor. Tessa twisted out of its grasp, yanked the handle free, and ran.
She flew past a few zombies who had turned to follow her despite the growing noise from the unseen vehicles. Tessa, feet stinging as they slapped on pavement, banked down an alley, ducked into an open archway, through the door there, and began groping her way upward in the dark. Out in the open and away from the cloying stench of the convenience store, her nose had cleared and now, in the dark, she felt hyperaware, every sense sharpened to a razor’s edge. In the darkness of the unknown building she’d entered, she could only faintly smell the dead. It was musty and stale, and she found herself climbing black stairs upward, many stories.
Must be in Farmer and Merchants
, she thought. The only building in Vinita with more than two stories.
She came into a large room, what must’ve been an office. The cubicles seemed mazelike in the light coming from the bay windows on the north wall of the room. She made her way through the dead, dull computers and overturned desk chairs. No zombies here. No living either. Just the husks of civilization.
At the window she could see north, out over the shorter buildings, into the fields. Banks of bulbs on big, mechanized tanks—or what looked like tanks—cast blue light in heavy arcs across the fallow land. ATVs and motorcycles circled the tanks like bees buzzing around a deadly flower.
And in the center of the flower, perched on the back of a war machine, stood a man pointing and yelling into a walkie-talkie.
Tessa’s gaze followed to where he pointed.
At the edges of the light, a figure, desperate, burst through the corn, throwing long shadows behind her.
“No!” Tessa screamed. “Cass! No, baby!”
Even from this distance, Tessa could make out her daughter’s form. Even if it had been miles, she would’ve know it was Cass, her run, the way she held her body, the arc of back and the long, muscular legs; she’d know her daughter anywhere.
It felt as if her heart stopped, dead still, in her chest. The zombies were ravenous and remorseless, most assuredly, but these methodical men drove a sinking feeling into the pit of Tessa’s stomach.
Cass ran and Tessa could make out the zombies pursuing her, moving into the long light, moving as fast as their desiccated limbs could carry them. Cass limped and as she drew nearer the tank, Tessa could see she was nude from the waist up. And bleeding from her arms. They must’ve grabbed her, and she shucked her shirt to escape.
“No!” Tessa’s voice cracked, and she banged on the thick office building window. She slammed her hand against glass. “No, baby!”
Helplessly, she watched as one of the ATVs drew near Cass and circled her. The masked driver dismounted, grabbed Cass’s arm, and twisted, turning it over. He was looking at her wounds. He yanked her toward the ATV and pushed her roughly into the seat, and then he mounted behind her,
one gloved hand roughly grasping her breasts and pulling her torso hard into his body. The zombies were gaining ground, and he popped the ATV into gear and approached the flower’s center, moving away from the undead.
At the tanks, the ATV driver pushed Cass off, dismounted once more, and held her in front of the man standing on top of the tank. Tessa couldn’t make out his face. She saw Cass stiffen and straighten her back, and she didn’t have to see her child’s face to know the expression on it—defiance.
The chief—the man standing on the tank—said something, and Cass replied, and the chief’s body tensed a little with the words, and Tessa knew that Cass had smarted off.
“No, baby! Just hush.” Tessa splayed her hands on the glass and breathed into it. “Hush, baby. Beg, honey. Beg for your life.”
The chief said something else, and the ATV driver grabbed Cass’s wrist again and twisted her arm, showing her wounds. She twisted and struggled in his grasp, but he didn’t release her.
Everything Tessa knew ended then.
Four small explosions of crimson blossomed on Cass’s body, across her back, and she slumped to the ground. When Tessa looked back to the chief, he was holding out a smoking pistol.
She slumped to the floor of the office, her back to the wall between her and the man who had murdered her baby. In the dark, musty air of the office, she cried and cursed; she cursed herself, her God, and Cass for her foolishness.
She didn’t know how long she sat there, but the sun filtered through the streets of Vinita, casting long shadows into the
corn, and when she stood, it was dry-eyed and with purpose. Looking out the window, she could see where Cass’s body lay, and the path the men took.
I will kill that man
, she thought as she moved back down the dark stairs.
If it’s the last thing I do. He’ll die at my hands
.
She moved into the street, making her way toward the clatter and light of tanks and the pop and crackle of gunfire. She adjusted her shirt, ripping the collar, showing more skin. She straightened her hair the best she could. Some undead had spotted her and she began to run, run to the tanks.
When she cleared the streets and entered the lights, keeping easily out of the reach of the zombies scrabbling after her, Tessa waved her arms and shouted for the attention of the chief.
An ATV intercepted her before she could reach him.
Barging into the
tent, Lieutenant Wallis let Tessa and Montfredi know they’d be Captain Mozark’s keepers and nurses until the G Unit could find someplace more secluded and stable.
“Ten minutes, people, and we’re out of here. Understood? That means I want all the captain’s things packed and ready to go, immediately.”
Montfredi barked, “Sir! Yes, sir!”
Lieutenant Wallis turned and looked at his superior officer lying on the cot in the corner of the tent. He pursed his lips.
“We’ll leave the tent behind. We’ve got three others just like it scavenged from a Walmart in Lawrence. Get the table, the maps, and his personal accouterments.”
Montfredi hesitated. “Accuter . . .”
The lieutenant shook his head. Tessa could see that Montfredi’s stupidity exhausted the young lieutenant’s patience. Even if she’d never heard the word before, she could gather what he meant. But Wallis continued. “His things. Get his stuff. Pack it for him. The things he’ll need.”
“Yes, sir!”
Lieutenant Wallis peered at Montfredi, then squinted and shifted his gaze to Tessa. He looked her up and down. She raised her eyes, glanced at Montfredi’s vapid face and then back to Wallis.
“You. Miss Tessa. You’re in charge. Make sure Montfredi . . . make sure this . . .” He waved his hand. “Make sure this is all taken care of.” He peered at her. “You are responsible, understand? I know you aren’t army, but . . . the world has changed and you’re with us now. I’d rather you be . . . this . . . than the men’s . . .”
He bowed his head and looked at his feet, and for a moment, she wanted to go to him, to tell him it was okay. She was only doing this to get . . . to get . . . here. With Mozark in her power.
“I don’t want you taking care of the men’s . . . needs, the way you’ve been doing, miss. That part of your duties is over, understand?”
It was strange to say it like this, but she tried. “Yes, sir.” She paused, cocked her head, and stared at the young officer. Dissembling came easy. “Least until Mozark gets better. He’ll be wanting my company.”
Lieutenant Wallis frowned, and in that instant, Tessa knew
that part of the young man wanted the captain to
not
get better, to go away, honorably, without killing.
He said, “You have free will, but the army practices a nonfraternization policy that your . . . extra duties . . . are in direct conflict with.”
“You saying that the captain broke the rules? Shit, Lieutenant, I could’ve told you that.” She winked at him and kicked out her hip.
I am not a whore
, she thought fiercely.
He’s blushing now, but he’d string me up or leave me for the dead to eat if he knew I was killing Mozark. Whatever else this beautiful lieutenant might be, he’s an old-school soldier. He’ll execute me for murdering the captain. I can’t ever doubt that
.
“No.” He shook his head, clenched his jaw, causing the fine line of his neck and chin to harden, and stepped closer to Tessa. She looked up into his face.
“It’s wrong. What he made you do . . . it’s one step away from . . . from . . . from
slavery
. From forcing another human to bend to your will, become property, to be used like a thing. An object.” He looked at her with hard eyes. Even in the low light of the tent, she could see the taut lines of his cheek, the muscles in his cheek shifting. He raised his fist as if clutching at something that eluded his grasp. “I’ll not allow the human race to slide back into barbarism on my watch.”