Stefan Petrucha - Dead Mann Walking

“She told him what I told you, she didn’t remember, but that wasn’t enough. Flitwick was convinced she’d had some mystical experience, and that was what was keeping them apart. If only he could feel what she’d felt, they could love each other the same way again, whatever that means. I’d seen that kind of thinking in rape or violent crime cases. It’s a variation on survivor’s guilt. Some spouses even put themselves in dangerous situations, trying to get the same thing to happen to them.

“In Flitwick’s case I don’t know if it was guilt, curiosity, or exactly like he said, but he decided to kill himself. He didn’t tell her why, though, didn’t want her to know he doubted their relationship. He figured that of course she’d bring him back. Then they’d be together like in the old days. Cue sappy music. So one fine morning, he kissed her on the cheek, headed to the garage, and sucked down some exhaust fumes. But she didn’t bring him back. As far as I know, she never considered it. Once I knew the whole story, of course I told her about her husband’s expectations.”

Turgeon was wide-eyed, but I let him hang until he asked.

“And did she? Did she bring him back like he’d wanted?”

“No.”

He looked angry. “Why? Why not?”

“I asked her the same question. Even had the same look on my face you do now. She had a hard time phrasing it, and I didn’t really understand until I came back myself, but it was something along the lines of she’d never do that to anyone, let alone someone she loved.”

He exhaled, made a sound like a word. I think it may have been bitch , like from the song he was listening to. No wonder he didn’t have a family.

Whether the story satisfied his curiosity or not, the conversation was over. A dull glow to our right told me we were nearly there. Dim orange fingers poked through the maze of dead branches. I tapped him on the shoulder.

“Slow up. You’ll miss the turn.”

His head twisted. “Is that a fire? Does it mean the hakkers are here?”

“Nah. All it means is that they don’t have electricity.”

Even so, I rolled down the window and listened carefully. Nothing.

“The real thing to worry about is a motorcycle whine,” I explained. “Hakkers love riding in on rice grinders. Makes them feel like they’re playing polo or something. Your hearing’s probably better than mine. Keep your ears peeled and don’t keep any strange sounds to yourself.”

He nodded. “If you don’t mind my asking, then, you’ve seen an attack?”

“I never mind smart questions. Not usually, anyway. Yeah, I did, once. It’s why I moved back to the city. Look, Mr. Turgeon, I was against it, but we’re here now and things look quiet. Do what I say when I say it and I think we’ll have a decent shot at getting out of this in one piece. Okay?”

He didn’t answer. He was so mesmerized by the dark rectangles of the buildings above the tree line that he missed the turn. We had to back up.

Not a good start.

Once we were pointed the right way, the Turgeon-mobile took the buckled asphalt and rocks easily. I started thinking the Hummer wasn’t a bad idea. It could probably even handle its share of machete and crowbar blows. Worse came to worst we could take cover in it. Wished it wasn’t piss yellow, though. Aside from being embarrassing, the gaudy color was easy to spot.

After a few curves, the road straightened on a nice postcard view of Bedland. Years back, Mayor Kagan and the board convinced Bedland Mattresses Inc. to open a factory here. Everyone thought it’d bring a ton of jobs. Two thousand, they guessed. In the middle of construction, the recession hit. Bedland went under, and I don’t mean under the blankets, and stiffed a bunch of local contractors. One wound up throwing himself off the main building so his family could collect on his life insurance policy. Nobody ever brought him back either. Lucky bastard.

With the girders, concrete, and drywall in place for three buildings, it made a perfect home-away-from-home for a certain class of pulse-challenged undesirables.

The banana-mobile crunched along, its halogen headlights hitting makeshift tents and tin-and-cardboard huts. They usually housed the overflow crowd, but they were dark, lifeless, to coin a phrase. The fire lights we’d seen from the main road were inside the buildings. Funny.

Funnier still when, as we watched, one by one, those lights went out.

They’d spotted us. It dawned on me that there was another really good reason coming here at night was a stupid idea. Mistaken identity. Nobody ever visits shantytowns at night except hakkers, so that’s what they took us for. How could I be so stupid?

“Slow down!” I said.

Too late. The air in front of the Hummer exploded.

Turgeon slammed the brakes so hard the shoulder belt nearly crushed my collarbone. As the heat blast hit the windshield, an enormous fire flower blossomed a few yards ahead. I could barely make out the shape of the wrecked car behind it.

“The chakz are getting more aggressive in their defense tactics,” I said. I was impressed. I opened the glove compartment and found a flashlight. With a click the light came on.

“Are you sure it’s the chakz?” Turgeon said. His voice had gone up half an octave.

“Pretty much. Relax. Kill the engine and get out of the car, slow. Once we’re outside, don’t say anything; just stand behind me.”

He was busy staring at the fire, so I had to tap him and repeat myself. Once he cut the ignition, he pulled a large piece from the same jacket pocket that used to hold the envelopes.

Looked like a forty-five.

“Put that away,” I hissed. “And don’t take it out again unless I say otherwise.”

He hesitated.

I put my hand on the gun. “This is what you paid for, right? My expertise?”

He gave me that pouty expression again, but shoved it back in his pocket. I wanted to pat him on the cheek and tell him what a good boy he was.

Instead, I got out, my eyes half on the fire, half on Turgeon. Once I was certain he was between me and the Hummer, I faced the burning car and held up my arms.

“Hey! We’re not hakkers, you idiots! You think those lowlifes could afford wheels like this? You think if they could they’d drive it out here and scratch the finish? Hello?”

Nothing. I pointed to my face.

“I’m one of you! I’m a chak! Hessius Mann! Any of you out there with half a brain left know me?”

Again, nothing.

Turgeon nudged me and whispered, “Ask about Boyle.”

I waved him off. “Shh! They heard me. They’re thinking about it. Keep quiet and watch.”

I trained my eyes on the edges of the flames, trying to peer into the long, flat darkness between the burning car and the main factory building. That’s when I saw them. They’d blended in so well with the shadows, the dead bushes, the broken bits of concrete, they were as good as invisible until they moved. It was as if they’d planned it that way.

Chakz. Lots. Five. Ten. Twenty. All shambling toward us. A field of rotting flesh and gnashing teeth.

“Oh, my God,” Turgeon said. He whimpered and staggered backward.

I kept my eyes on what was coming and muttered, “You think?”

4

The closest was a real walking-dead poster child—a gleet in a construction jumpsuit with a juicy hole in his forehead the size of a golf ball. Arms out Frankenstein style, he looked as if he was leading the others like a parade marshal.

There’s a song in there somewhere, but I don’t know what it is.

As they came forward, I was more worried about Turgeon. He held his ground, but shook so badly I felt a breeze at my back. I was afraid he’d do something stupid that’d require quick thinking on my part, or at least a phone call to Misty to say good-bye.