Dead Mann Running (9781101596494) (12 page)

The hardest part turned out to be cutting the damn photo down to size and slipping it into the fucking ID card. That took nearly all morning.

All I had to do now was present myself for a test at the right center, and fail. The state didn’t like to waste fuel, so it was a good bet they’d ship me to whatever camp was closest. Camp Kyua was nearest Chambers, a town that used to be a trade hub, and was now mostly known for sitting on Settler’s River without being swept away. I reached their chak center around noon. It was a squat brick building with few windows that once served as a DMV.

Inside, a faint chemical smell, like Lysol, hit my nostrils. No surprise. All chak centers were equipped with decontamination stalls—showers, pretty much, mostly water, twenty percent antiseptic. If you passed the test, the shower was voluntary, but highly recommended. If you failed, well, then pretty much everything was mandatory.

I slogged with deliberate slowness through the silver poles and black nylon ribbon, scraping my feet on the remains of arrows taped to the linoleum. Chakz aren’t much for lines. We’re not impatient, most of us just don’t
understand them. We’ll wander toward anything shiny, or stand in the same spot for hours blocking things up.

So I was a little surprised that the line wasn’t bad, meaning it looked like a line, mostly. It occurred to me that the testing process self-selected the smarter ones. You had to get here and follow the arrows, which already made you better off than some. Goners were supposedly too decayed to go feral, but I had to wonder if the LBs left them alone because there was no way to monitor them all effectively.

There was a gap between the last two chakz. A woman, hunched over so far her chinbone touched her navel, was where she should be, but ten feet behind her stood a lipless man, if you could call it standing. While she was bent forward, he curved sideways, his spine twisted into a nearly perfect half-moon, like he was standing on the sloping deck of the Titanic right before it split in two.

Not wanting to draw attention by cutting ahead, I gave him a nudge.

“You on line?”

He pivoted toward me, then back toward the distant bag woman. His eyes went a little wide at the space. “Yeah, sorry. Thanks.”

Since that was a reasonably coherent response, I decided to ask, “Do you know Kyua?”

He put a finger to his bare teeth, telling me he did, but didn’t plan on talking about it. Kyua helps those who help themselves. Looked like I was in the right place. Every five minutes or so, the line moved, but he didn’t, and I’d have to nudge him again.

Things went on like that for a while. My mind was knocking around aimlessly when a voice from behind
whispered, “If someone bigger shoves you, do you shove back?”

I whirled. A raggedy was behind me, looking up expectantly, half her face missing, the muscles exposed. Not
a
raggedy,
the
raggedy, the one I’d seen twice already, at the accident site, then at the motel. Had she seen through my shitty disguise?

Before I could open my mouth, she repeated the question. “What are you, a goner? If someone bigger shoves you, do you shove back?”

“That some kind of metaphor?”

“No, idiot, it’s a test question. You’re smart enough to nudge the guy ahead of you, I thought maybe you’d know the answer.”

Maybe she didn’t recognize me. I shrugged. “I’m not sure. The usual, ethical answer might be something like, only if I had to, to protect myself. But if they’re looking for a tendency toward violence, then the right answer might be no, never, or only if they’re not a liveblood. Go with that.”

She lowered her head and moved it back and forth, like she was trying to memorize what I’d said. “Yeah, yeah. Okay. Thanks.”

I’d forgotten to alter my voice, not that I’d be any good at it, but I risked a few more questions. “You from Chambers?”

She scanned my face suspiciously. Not wanting to give her too close a look, I staggered back a little, hoping it looked natural.

“Why, are you?” she said.

I nodded, lying. “Haven’t seen you around town. Then again I’m not good with faces, whole or half. What brings you?”

“What do you think? My test. Took me days to walk here.”

So she’d picked Chambers, too. “I heard rumors some of the chakz that get here plan to fail on purpose. You one of those?”

She shook her head. “No fucking way. But if I do fail, might as well wind up at Kyua, right?”

The conversation was interrupted. The hunched-over bag lady had been seated for her test at one of three desks beyond the end of the line. Now she’d bolted to her feet, her back so curved, she nearly slammed her chin on the paperwork.

“No, no! You bastards! Bastards!”

A few chakz behind me groaned and gnashed their teeth. It was kind of an involuntary reaction, but if it went on too long, some would go feral. There was a quick nod from the tester and two guardsmen in khaki uniforms grabbed her.

They couldn’t straighten her out without breaking her, and that would only rile the chakz more. Instead, they lifted her sideways, still bent over. Hands scratching and legs kicking, she looked like a petulant piece of furniture. They took her beyond a blue door where they kept the decontamination showers and the holding cells. I assumed the door was soundproofed because we didn’t hear her once it shut.

Chak Centers being one of the few places where public smoking is still allowed, the tester tamped out her cigarette with a shaky hand and put up a sign reading, N
EXT
W
INDOW
.

I looked back at the raggedy. “Not everyone feels the same way about the camp.”

Her shrug looked strange with one shoulder gone. “Everyone’s got an opinion.” She nodded for me to turn around. “You’re up.”

Another desk had opened up. I lumbered up and plopped my card in front of a forty-something woman with coiffed hair. Kafka228 herself, for all I knew, looked at the card, at me, then back at the card.

“None of my business,” she muttered. I sat and she started with the test.

“Can you tell me your middle name?”

“Sorry, I don’t know. Billy?”

“Close enough. If someone shoved you, would you shove them back?”

I managed a grin. “You bet!”

That part was easy.

The rest wasn’t. About an hour after my shower, they shoved me, the raggedy, and a bunch of others, onto an old school bus. It had undergone a few modifications since it trucked around the kiddies: there was a stainless steel gate between the driver and the passengers, and the emergency exit in back had been welded shut.

Things seemed to be going as planned for a change. Despite my appearance, I almost felt like a detective on a case.

Then about five minutes into the trip, it dawned on me we weren’t going north. We were headed south, away from Camp Kyua, toward God knew where. The raggedy noticed, too.

“Crap!” she shouted.

I agreed.

T
here was nothing to do but enjoy the ride. At least no one felt like singing “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” We made a few stops at other registration centers, each one farther south, dashing any hope I had that we might turn back. Every time, more not-so-happy campers were shoved on by the guardsmen.

Soon, the bus was so crowded we were stacked, two or three chakz high. I wound up in a twisted position that would have killed a liveblood, buried on a seat I couldn’t see, head shoved sideways against the window. Every time we hit a bump, and there were lots, it felt like my skull or the glass would break. Eventually the glass did crack, not enough for me to climb out, but enough to let the November wind freeze the fake vampire blood on the dome of my skull.

The pickups done, we headed away from so-called civilization. After about an hour of steady uphill progress, the bus creaked and slowed. Unable to move my
head, I turned my eyes toward what was left of the window. It was night, but the moon was out. Through the spiderweb crack in the window, I saw a tall gate, chain-link with barbed wire up top. There weren’t any signs warning that it was electrified, but the still-smoldering palm and charred fingers of the disembodied hand poking through the chain-link gave that impression.

My fellow passengers grunted and moaned, sounding more like undead cattle than a threat to public safety. I barely heard the bus door sigh open. A smell you couldn’t miss, like overcooked bacon, pushed away what was left of the air.

We didn’t walk so much as fall out, keeping our cramped shapes as we hit the ground. Even after I extricated myself from the lump of entwined torsos and limbs I couldn’t stand at first. When I straightened, all kinds of things snapped, crackled, and popped inside me.

Aside from the bacon smell coming from the fence and the familiar chak version of body odor, my nostrils met something more immediately dangerous, a strong stench of rot. As I looked around, I could hear that German GPS saying,
Sie sind angekommen
.

You have arrived.

Chak-camps were the result of lots of talk, but no planning. Most were repurposed stables, racetracks, country fairgrounds, that sort of thing—big spaces used to holding lots of garbage. I had no idea what this place was when it was alive. It looked like they’d just found a field and tossed it up, which meant they were running out of space.

The wind blew colder and harder, not that it helped the smell, so I guessed we were on some kind of plateau. Carbon-arc searchlights made whatever they touched
briefly brighter than the moon. As far as I could see, the whole place was one great big fence, sprinkled with guard towers, their spindly steel legs glinting whenever the lights kissed them. Other than that, no buildings, no shelter, only a wide view of mud piles and trash.

I wondered where the other prisoners were, until the mud piles moved toward us. The Bible said God made man from mud, and here we were, going back to it. It was around then I thought of ripping off my disguise and letting the bus driver take me to the police. But a metallic click told me he’d locked the gate. I turned in time to see him hop back into the bus and drive off.

Was this it? No sign-in? No orientation? I didn’t expect it to be like it was on Nell’s show, comfortable, with shelter and recreation, but I expected
something
. On the brighter side, a week here and I’d feel like I’d done my time for axing Flat-face.

Hell, a
day
.

Chakz are never colorful, but what got off the bus wasn’t nearly as gray as what was coming toward us. At first, I thought they might greet us, give us the lay of the land. Instead, they started checking our pockets.

A one-eyed man with a single tooth yanked a locket from the raggedy’s neck. He held it up and announced, “Pretty!” right before she clocked him in the jaw.

“Give it, Grandpa, now!”

I wanted to help, but there were hands, many missing fingers, all over me, fishing through my clothes. If they grabbed my wig, they’d yank it off and I’d be exposed. Then again, the guards were probably used to seeing body parts slough off. And where else would they put me, prison?

I pushed a few away, trying to be gentle until I felt someone snag my recorder. I snatched it back, pinching the hand that held it. A woman with a mud-caked beehive hairdo yowled, “We share everything!”

“No,” I said. “We don’t.”

She grabbed again, but I held on tight. I was ready to start a real ruckus when a short guy with Superman biceps ambled up from the shadows. What I saw of his face looked pretty complete, even had some white stubble. I almost took him for a guard, but he wasn’t wearing khaki. The pants hitched up too high reminded me of a semiretired handyman my late wife Lenore and I used to hire.

He put two fingers under his tongue and blew. A harsh whistle erupted from his mouth, something I couldn’t do when I was alive. Everyone stopped moving.

“If it’s important to them, let them keep it.” He spoke with lazy authority, like an experienced foreman on a construction site. “One item each. Johnny, you give that girlie her locket.”

But old Johnny had already lost that fight. He was in the dirt, tugging his single tooth to see if she’d loosened it. I didn’t know who the raggedy was, or why she kept turning up, but I was starting to like her.

The beehive woman scowled. “We share
everything
.”

“Let him keep it, Cheryl. We’ll figure out some way he can pay.”

Cheryl let go and snarled at me, “You’ll pay.”

“I got a feeling I already am,” I told her.

She looked like she was about to utter a clever comeback, but someone shouted, “Bottle cap!” and she toddled over to check.

After shoving the recorder back in my pocket, I stepped toward our protector, deeper into the camp. I had to slow when the stench grew stronger, but he seemed like a man worth knowing.

“Thanks, pal,” I said. “I use it to remember things.”

He couldn’t care less. “You look like you’re in one piece. Can you work?” He pointed to a pile of something against the fence. “Got wood, nails, hammers, and permission to put up a building.”

“Sure. It’s something to do at least, right? We could use a shelter.”

He shook his head. His jaw wobbled as if it wasn’t properly attached. “Not for us, for the supplies.”

“What supplies?”

He counted on his fingers. “Chain-link, posts, sledgehammers, stuff the guard uses to extend the fence. Oh, and sometimes fuel for the flamethrowers.”

“You’re fucking with me. They expect us to help expand our own prison?”

He shrugged and spoke slowly, like English wasn’t his first language, or there was something wrong with his throat. “They don’t expect anything except for us to go feral. This is an overflow camp, understaffed, overcrowded. They just wait, then come out with the throwers and burn us, real slow if they have to conserve fuel. Five, six a day. They wish it was more. But like you said, the work gives you a focus. Makes it harder to go,” he said. “A little harder, anyway.”

Boy, did I get on the wrong bus.

Mr. Fixit had been mostly in shadow, but when the searchlight passed this time, I got a lightning view of his face. He looked much better in the dark. What skin he
had was covered with black patches and oozing holes. The exposed muscles were dark red puddles, with bits of bone showing like potatoes floating in a stew.