Order of the Dead (55 page)

23

Senna was limping toward her house, her mind in a fog, when she heard the
gunshot. She turned and ran back to the perimeter to help, biting back the
pain. When she saw the new body on the ground she stopped.

Corks was still twitching. Blood was
oozing from the hole in the back of his head and soaking into the ground. A
small group of townspeople that had crowded around him was already dispersing to
go back to mending the fence.

Senna stared at the body, wishing only
that he hadn’t done it, that he could’ve found a way to hang on a little while
longer. But it was his choice and he’d made it. At least it had been quick and
on his own terms.

With muted horror tiptoeing its way
around the insides of her belly, she thought on what she’d seen in the last
twenty-four hours, of the horrors done to the children and Molly and Rad.

The night watchman’s body stopped its
snap, crackle, and spasmodic pop.

Maybe that’s the way out, she thought.
Maybe that’s what we all ought to do. Instead of going on like this. In here.
Surrounded by fucking cannibals and zombies.

Her lip twitched involuntarily and she
felt a pressure behind her eyes. Maybe Corks’s death was a good one in the
broad spectrum of deaths, but he was her friend. He was Alan’s friend. And now
Corks was gone and Alan was likely gone too. She wondered who she had left in the
world. Who was she supposed to live for now?

The children, she admonished herself.
You’ll live for the children. While they live, there’s hope.

And Alan’s not dead yet. You can still
find him. And if he were dead, he would want you to, to— Her thoughts faltered
as she stared at Corks’s unmoving body.

Seeing him like that, uncovered, made
her feel naked. She began to look for something to cover him with, but someone
beat her to it, taking a piece of tarp from the building materials and laying it
over Corks’s upper half, covering the watchman’s face, contorted by death.

She slowly backed away from the body,
and turned toward home.

On the way back to her house, she saw
a large group of people gathered in the church, and she guessed they were taking
turns at shifts by the outer gate as it was being repaired. A shadow appeared
in the doorway and called out to her as she passed. She didn’t answer or turn to
see who it was.

It could’ve been Ned Klefeker, she
thought, or maybe Chad Stucky. Right you are the second time.

It was Chad, who hadn’t the heart left
to go back home and face the empty house. He’d buried his final wife in her
garden two hours earlier, and then he’d come to the church.

Senna went on without acknowledging
him, and he was about to go after her when he saw some men coming from the fence.
They were carrying someone on a stretcher, someone who was squirming in what
looked like an attempt to get away from his own body.

When they got closer, Chad could see
the strain in the men’s faces and the considerable sag of the stretcher. They
were asking sternly, but not quite in yelling voices, that the occupant of the
stretcher stay still, because his squirming was making it near impossible to
keep the thing upright. It was Chase Ham. His right pant leg was soaked with
blood. He’d managed to drive a bolt through his leg, and it was still there,
lodged in his thigh.

“Shit,” Chad breathed when Chase Ham
was closer. He was losing too much blood.

“Bring him inside quickly and set him
down,” Chad said to the two men, who were Bill Meyers and Sal Hendrix. Sal’s
look made it plain that he couldn’t wait to do just that. How anyone had made
it this far into life after the outbreak and was still squeamish was beyond
Chad. There were a few people like this, and it always baffled him that they’d
been able to survive amidst the carnage long enough to make it into a
settlement.

Chad stepped aside and followed them
into the church. He’d have a look at Chase’s leg, because that was his duty. He
was the only one left in town—besides Knapp, who was too drunk to be any good—with
some semblance of real medical training, having been a paramedic in his college
years. Nell could’ve helped too, but she was missing—probably at home, dealing
with the loss of her son. Then, when he’d put Chase at ease to the extent he
could, he’d go to Senna and see if he could help her. That was what he planned
to do, but Senna wasn’t going to be there when he came looking.

When he walked into the church, he was
blindsided by what he saw there, and had his wife not just died, he would’ve
gaped, slack-jawed at the sight. Knapp was there, in the soberest condition
Chad had ever seen him, and he was attending to the injured. Sasha was a few
feet away, passed out on a cot, whatever shit drug the kidnappers had given her
working its way out of her system.

Knapp had once—long before the
outbreak and not for a very long while—been a registered nurse, so he knew what
he was doing. Chad saw that he needed help, the man was still working off enough
booze to kill a horse, probably would be for days, but he was being productive
for once. As Chad made a beeline behind Chase and over to Knapp to help treat the
wounded, he wished it had been something else that had snapped Larry out of his
self-flagellating dungeon of drink, something that didn’t involve Laura’s death
and the atrocities of the previous day.

As Chad joined Larry, who accepted the
help of the newcomer with sincere gratitude, Senna quickly walked home. The
rain weakened from a pour to a weaker pour to a drizzle, and then fog began to
simmer up from the ground. She’d left the outer gate just moments before Chase
Ham had injured himself, and Chase had traveled on his stretcher following her
toward the church, but she hadn’t turned around to see him.

She went back to the farm and into the
home that she and Alan had made in New Crozet.

Dazed and unthinking, she went to the
bedroom. It still smelled of him.

He’d gone to rescue her. Alone.

Alone.

She thought of the struggle inside the
campsite hours earlier.

Had that been him? Had he been there
then, just a few feet away, trying to fight all the… She couldn’t finish the
thought.

Senna was leaning on the unmade bed.
They’d left it a rumpled mess after their quickie the previous day, before
heading to market. They’d already been late, and that, she realized, had been
the last time they’d shared their bodies, perhaps the last time they ever would.
She pushed herself upright and stood trembling for a moment. Then she ran from
the house.

24

Senna went to the magnolia tree like a person stumbling blindly through a dream.
The corners of things were fuzzy with mist. Her thoughts were indistinct, their
sharp defining lines still finding their way free of the Sultan’s dungeon.

A haze was drifting over her farm—
their
farm, Alan’s and hers. Tendrils seemed to reach for her, the limbs of shapes
that were trying to form out of the floating motes of water. She pushed through
the fog, and her thoughts became more vague and disconnected.

Clarity was seeping out of the world
like water through a colander.

A wraith of mist contracted and drew
itself closer to Senna, touching her skin with its cold fingers, bringing on
flare-ups of goose bumps as if by magic, guiding her along.

She wasn’t running anymore. She was
standing somewhere, under something.

Her body was cold, shivering, and
suddenly, falling. The soft, moist earth met her, and she was under the
magnolia tree that had drawn her to pick that spot in New Crozet for a home for
Alan and herself.

Rainwater was dripping from the lowest
layer of thick, glistening leaves and falling on her. The floating haze
gathered up around her and the tree, forming an ellipse of vapor. There,
surrounded by mist under the cover of her beloved tree’s leafy boughs, she submitted
entirely to grief.

After some time, when her tears had
dried and it seemed there was no moisture left in her body, she put her arms
around the magnolia’s trunk and leaned her forehead against it, closing her
eyes. The bark was smooth and slick with rain against her skin.

Every time she closed her eyes and
they were shut, it felt like when she opened them, he would be there again, by
her side, as if nothing had happened. But each time she did open her eyes, he
wasn’t there. She was alone in the farm, sitting under that beautiful tree, in
the spot where she and Alan had made love so many times. They’d made love
everywhere, but that was a special place. It was always a little different
there, more heartfelt, and it was also where…

The wan light of the world drained from
Senna’s vision, and, under the weight of the Sultan’s poison that her body was
still working overtime to metabolize, and the upheaval of her whole life, her
head began to tilt lower and lower, her eyelids drooping, and she faded until a
dreamless sleep took her in.

25

The last of the heavy clouds floated over Senna’s farm, sending rainwater to pound
away at the ground, forcing more and more steam from the soil’s depths. The
raindrops became smaller, and the haze more indistinct. Soon, the water in the
air was mostly a floating fog, fractured by drizzle and cold air currents that
came and went in patches.

A cluster of sopping wet indigo peeked
up at Senna and watched her lie unconscious under the magnolia. This patch of
indigo hadn’t flowered this season, and so it had gone unnoticed while the rest
of its kind revealed their brilliant coats of blue, and so, finally, it had
snuck past the border.

It was the first indigo plant to make
it inside Senna’s farm. Feeling triumphant in spite of the unacknowledged
victory, it looked at her curiously, and wondered what the woman would do next.
Alan was gone, any sapling could tell that much, and he’d obviously been made
for her, so the indigo couldn’t help but be stumped—not literally though, God
forbid—failing in its cleverness to suspect that perhaps Alan had been made for
more than one purpose, and not just for Senna.

After some hours, the sun began to rub
at its sleepy eyes, and under its squinty gaze of morning, Senna was roused
from her heartache by a thought that made her insides feel like they were being
slashed to shreds.

What if, she thought, he’s out there living—no,
existing
—as one of those things, as a...

She stood up too quickly and had to
steady herself by putting a hand on the magnolia’s trunk. The dizziness was so overwhelming
that she doubled over, stopping just short of vomiting.

The mist had gathered closer around
her, as if its motes were going to her in search of rescue from the threat of
frying by the sun’s rays. Two wispy tendrils pushed her, ducking, out from the
tree’s canopy, and then back into the house, where she went to the kitchen. She
filled a glass and drank greedily, then refilled it and drank again, and again,
until she’d downed five glasses of water.

The water was helping. The Sultan’s
generous drug haze seemed to be lifting more and more with every passing
moment. While she stood there, she found herself recalling what it had been like
to realize that she was able to sense the break before it happened. It had
happened twelve years ago, when the virus broke.

No, Senna thought, it wasn’t when the
virus broke, it had been before that. It now dawned on her, for the first time,
that she’d sensed the frenzy of flesh hunger and spreading un-death before people
had recognized the plague for what it was, before the outbreak.

She’d felt strange and off balance for
weeks leading up to it, and she was now surprised that she hadn’t yet reflected
on her feelings of that time, but it was understandable given the state of the world.

Reflecting on the past was a luxury
that few could afford, and that could cost those few their lives. Time was
better spent growing food and defending the perimeter, and reflection was best
spent devising new and better ways of doing the same.

Still, she’d sensed the coming carnage
before the outbreak. What did that mean? Had she smelled the virus as it was
brewing, but before it mutated into that first stage of genetic abandon, the
one that tore the human world apart?

She’d felt strange just before the later
mutations, too. Each time, for some weeks before another species or another
group of species was taken, she’d felt… she’d felt the same thing she’d been
feeling in these weeks leading up to the market, in the weeks leading up to
now.

But how could that be, and why?

It was only now, when she felt the
absence of the feeling that she realized it had been there in the first place. How
had she not noticed it sooner?

Alan.

The Order of the Dead.

Equilibrium Day.

Equilibrium Day?

What fucking insanity.

Cannibalism.

That was their true purpose—eating
people, just like Krokodil’s purpose, admitted in the tagline Ginny had found:
‘It
eats people.’

But if that really was the only reason
for their existence, then why spread the virus to new hosts? As a cover? As a
way to keep the brothers and sisters aligned? Was it just to scare people?

Their leader—that Brother Mardu—had
been obsessed with the idea of fear and putting it into people and keeping it
there. That was how he controlled everyone.

He styled himself and his way as the
only escape from the fear, the only way out. It was government by terror.

That was why they infected children whole,
because it was sick and gruesome and a man who could do that was capable of
anything, and that was worthy of dread.

It was a display of power: I take the
meat and wealth and offer it to my god—the virus—as I see fit; my god gets the
best of their organs, the youngest, freshest ones: the brain and heart and
liver and kidneys and spleen; we eat some but the rest are for my god, and my
god is your god and our god owns the world. It was primal and effective.

Was it so insane? Did it even begin to
be
insane? The virus
did
rule the world, there was no arguing
with that.

“It doesn’t matter,” Senna whispered.
Answers didn’t matter now. Maybe answers didn’t mean anything anymore and never
would again. And if that was true, that didn’t matter either.

What mattered was finding Alan. Following
that, they could go after the Order and kill every single cannibal who was a
brother or sister or whatever the hell they called themselves, and then they
would go after all the cannibals in the world, and they would get the crews
going again, and they would take the world back, they would take it
all
back.

“But I can’t…
We
can’t…because—enough. Find Alan. I just need to find Alan. Together, we’ll know
what to do.”

Her mind turned to Tom and Corks, very
able men in their time, and the other townspeople who were young and strong
enough to go after the fake Tackers, but who’d stayed behind.

“Those damned cowards,” she said, her
lips curling with rage. She felt guilty as soon as she said it, because they’d
been right. They were supposed to stay behind. That was the understanding.
Don’t give chase. Cut your losses. Protect the town.

Leaving New Crozet meant almost
certain death, and those who’d been taken could be considered dead already, so
why pursue them at the risk of one’s own life, and at the risk of the exposed
townspeople who needed their fence repaired and protection in the interim?

Alan had been the only one to come.
Why had he done that? He’d come, throwing his good after their bad, risking his
life for people who were as good as dead, for her and the children, and for
Molly and Rad.

Now it was just her and Jenny and
Sasha. Jack and Rosemary, and Molly and Rad…they were all gone. Safe less than a
day earlier, and now all dead, and Jack and Rosemary had been made to suffer
through the turn, and Molly and Rad had been eaten alive.

And now Alan was gone too, and one of
many general philosophies of the settlements was proved correct.
Never
pursue. Never.
Never.

But she couldn’t know that he was
dead. She had no way of knowing that. So she had to go after him. She had to
find him.

She was repeating the same thought
process he’d gone through before leaving in search of her, and she would come
to the same conclusion.

“Alan,” she whispered, and the name seemed
to die in her throat, its passage marked by a sharp pain in her chest and a
deep emptiness in her belly.

Alan.

Alan Rice.

My
Alan.

Killed by the Order of the Dead, which
wasn’t supposed to fucking exist in the first place.

You don’t know he’s dead, she told
herself. You don’t know, but you can
feel
it.

The Order isn’t supposed to be real.
They’re not real!

What she was doing now was pointless.
She had to act, and she had to act fast, while there might still be time. She
got up, got her gun, loaded it, and filled her pockets with extra clips. When
she saw the Voltaire II’s box out and open, her breath caught, and she crept
closer until she was standing over it, peering into the box that wasn’t hers at
the Voltaire II in its nest of blankets. This wasn’t her weapon to take, but
she thought perhaps Alan would have wanted it this way.

Why else would it be sitting there
like that, looking at her? It really did seem to be staring at her. It was
true: Voltaire II flamethrowers and their ilk were always on the lookout for
their masters, or for an interim master…anyone really, who would take them out
and play with them.

“Play with me,” Allie the Voltaire II
whispered. “Take me out and play with me, Senna…you know you want to…you know
you
need
to. Alan would play with me if he were here. Alan’s so good at
playing…are you good at it? You’re good at playing with Alan, but can you play
with me?”

Of course Senna didn’t understand the
Voltaire II’s sultry invitation, humans didn’t speak flamethrower, but that was
okay, as long as Senna caught Allie the Voltaire II’s vibe, and it seemed like
she was doing just that, because she was leaning in closer.

“Yes,” the Voltaire II breathed. “Take
me, please.”

She put it together and took it out of
the box—more like heaved it out. When it was clear of its bed and blankets
Senna staggered backward one step to brace the Voltaire II’s weight. No wonder
Alan’s back hurt. Senna knew she had it beat in weight by only fifty or sixty pounds.

The Voltaire II sighed. The little
flamethrower would have her wish at long last...just a few human moments more
that were needed for Senna to get in position for the burning, and human
moments were nothing to flamethrowers.

Senna lugged the weapon to the door.

She got as far as the porch, and there
she hesitated.

The Voltaire II tapped her foot
impatiently.

Objectively, this wasn’t the right
thing to do right now. Senna knew that, but it didn’t matter. She had to do it.
Alan would have done the same thing for her, and, apparently, he already had.

He wasn’t the only man she’d ever
loved, but he was the one she’d loved the most. For him, she would go back into
the forest, and back into the Order’s camp.

She pushed herself forward, and the
momentum of her movement carried her down the steps from the porch, the
Voltaire II leading the way as she struggled to keep it in her grasp.

She wouldn’t ask anyone to come with
her, because that wouldn’t be fair. She went toward the gate, which was now a
work in progress, moving as quickly as her bruised body would allow, just short
of a jog.