Stefan Petrucha - Dead Mann Walking

I nodded. “That’s what he called it. Could be our first philanthropist, if Turgeon doesn’t rob him blind.”

After the nod, Jonesey only half listened. He was rolling the idea around in his head, hoping to get it stuck somewhere. “Safe place? Huh. Safe. Yeah. Y’know, that is such a good idea, a really good idea. I’ve been thinking about stuff like that, like maybe we could get a little organized, try to protect our rights more. I . . . I could help do that. I used to motivate people. I could put together a rally.”

“Yeah, Jonesey. You could,” I told him.

“I’m going to think about it.”

“Well, don’t hurt yourself.”

“Funny. I’ll see you, Mann.”

He walked off, nodding to himself. Misty put her hand in the crook of my arm. We watched him for a bit, then headed in the opposite direction.

“So, it went well, huh?”

“I’m still here.”

“Did you mean that, what you said to Jonesey about organizing chakz being a good idea?”

I laughed. “Hell, no. It’d be like getting cats to line up.”

“Really? Because I bet he could do it.”

I stopped and looked at her. “I hope the hell not. If he succeeded, even a little, it’d be worse than the mess I just left behind. Get more than five chakz together in the same place, the livebloods will think we’ve gone feral en masse and start D-capping like we were flowers and they needed a bouquet. Haven’t you ever seen a zombie movie?”

She scrunched that pretty, pockmarked face of hers. “Then why’d you lie?”

I shrugged. “I wanted to keep his brain busy. After I snapped him out of that feral fit, he was planning a home invasion. An hour from now he’ll be trying to assemble a moon rocket out of piss and cardboard. Why not let him hold on to something?”

She seemed a little deflated. “Same thing with Frank Boyle and that home?”

“I have to admit, that’s a different case. He’s smart. If Turgeon’s honest . . . and Boyle plays it right, buys some property as far from what they call civilization as possible. Then maybe . . .”

Misty narrowed her eyes. “So you do believe in something?”

“Now, don’t go talking crazy like that.”

“Come on, Hess, new life comes out of the dead, right?”

“Sounds like you’re expecting a tree to grow out of my chest.”

She slapped my shoulder. “Shut up. I’m just saying maybe something’s watching out for people like us. Maybe the universe has plans for Boyle, or Jonesey, or even you.”

I didn’t want to get into it. Like Jonesey and his PAC of the living dead, if it made Misty happy to believe in some spaghetti monster in the sky, if it kept her sober one more day, I didn’t see the harm in it.

We found an all-night CVS. Feeling like a big man, I bought Misty a new coffee machine, and myself a new digital voice recorder with two gigs of flash memory and a couple of James Bond microphone attachments. I paid too much for both, but what the hell.

Our prizes wrapped in plastic, we headed home. After we made it up the stairs, she made for the mattress in the front room. I yanked off my tie and shambled toward the office recliner. I thought about the cash I had, how I could actually get some furniture for the place. I had to admit, right then and there, it looked like a happy ending. It was almost enough to make me think the universe did have plans for me.

Then again, I’ve seen too much of its other work to consider that a good thing.

7

Happy ending? Tell it to my dreams.

No sooner did Mr. Sandman whisk me out of my dried husk than I was in a nightmare. I still dream, but wish to hell I didn’t. And this one I remembered. It was in a kind of Technicolor that makes your skin crawl. I was in the suburbs of Fort Hammer. Lenore was there, alive. We had two kids playing out back. I didn’t know their names. I think it was a boy and a girl.

The bell rang. I got a bad feeling about it, but I opened the door anyway, because it’s silly not to, right? There was a mattress-wide guy on the front step. He was hairless; his rounded shoulders matched the curve of his bald head. He had waxy skin, a thick brow, and dead eyes. Dead eyes. He didn’t look at me. He looked off to the side and waited, like I was the one who was supposed to know what came next.

Telling myself I was crazy for being nervous, I asked, “Can I help you, buddy?”

Now, he looked at me, but I could tell he didn’t like it. Not me—he didn’t like seeing anyone else’s eyes. His thick lips parted. He struggled to make some sounds. It was a big effort, frustrating in the extreme. It made him angry to have to try.

I felt bad, but I couldn’t make out any words. “Sorry, I don’t understand.”

He did it again, made the sounds, only slower and louder. His bare feet lifted a bit as he shifted from side to side. I could tell it was the same noises in the same sequence, but that was all. “Sorry?”

He gritted his teeth. His muscles tensed. I was creeped-out big-time and worried that if he smelled it on me, my fear would add to his frustration. He repeated himself a third time, but still no go.

I twisted my head to look past him, hoping there was a neighbor out, someone who might know what this was about, someone I could ask for help. Instead, all over the cul-de-sac, there were more like him, dozens, like a plague. They weren’t exactly identical. One was a little shorter, another a little thinner, but they were all the same. There was at least one at the door of each house.

I turned back to mine and realized he’d been talking all along. Maybe he said it more clearly this last time and I hadn’t paid attention. There was nothing I could do about it now, or about what came next. When I shook my head apologetically, his eyes flared. His thick lips curled into a bestial snarl. He screamed the sounds so loud it hurt my ears. I had to take a step back.

The others heard him. In unison, they turned toward my house, toward me. They walked toward me, slowly, like the shadow of a cloud.

Panting, he glared at me, waiting for my response. Our eyes met. He saw my fear.

“I don’t understand!”

The nearest of the others reached my lawn. He looked angry, too. They all did. They were growling now. The one at my door stepped in. I tried to stop him, but couldn’t. He was too big. I fell backward. He didn’t hit me; I fell because I was so afraid. I lay on my back, helpless as they came.

The terror was so strong I wanted to curl into a ball and roll away forever. I tried to fight it, distract myself, but part of me knew that sooner or later, it was going to get me.

They were going to get me. And make me one of them.

“Hess, Hess! Wake up!”

Reality split like the pants on a fat man. I was in two places at once, no idea which one was real, which to believe in. I was standing in the living room surrounded by the idiot jackals. At the same time I was lying in the ratty recliner, looking up at Misty. If I had a choice, I knew which one I wanted, even if I was dead there. I lunged for my office.

“Hess, will you . . . ?”

The living room and the bald men flickered. There was a shiver or two, or three. As the dream let go, I threw myself out of the recliner, literally falling back into my office, the more palatable hell.

Sickly light dribbled through the holes in the yellowed shade behind Misty. It was morning. Misty, seeing my eyes open, stopped screaming and let go of me. Something was wrong. The more she came into focus, the more she seemed upset. About what? I wasn’t moaning, was I? Not now. Things were looking up, right?

I sat and rubbed some splinters from the floor off my fingers.

“Sorry, Misty. Was I screaming in my sleep again? The drug dealers complaining?”