Last Rites (14 page)

“Angie’s g-g-gone,” the tall woman said softly after a while.

Lucy couldn’t help letting her jaw drop at that. She and Truman had struggled so hard to relearn speech, and this woman could talk too. She had the same problems they did—the pauses to take a breath or to think of the next word, the little catches and stammers, the vowel sounds coming out wrong—but she could speak. If the living people in this place were not particularly surprising or interesting, the dead people certainly were.

“I should’ve gone,” the short red-haired girl said, looking down.

“No, they were gonna get her anyway,” said the brown-haired woman on the couch. “They liked her better. Fed her more. Always looked at her ass. Then she got hurt. They got tired of her. That’s how they are.”

The other two nodded in silent agreement.

“You talk?” Lucy finally asked.

“Yes,” the tall woman said as they all stared at Lucy. “So do you. Good. Sit. We’ll talk.”

“Thank you.” Lucy sat on the sofa next to the brown-haired woman.

“Most of us talk,” the tall woman continued. “But not in front of food men. Never. You remember that.”

“Food men?” Lucy asked.

“The living,” the tall woman answered, tapping the tip of the fire poker on the floor. “They bring us food sometimes, so we call them food men.”

“Yes, and some day maybe they are the food again,” the woman next to Lucy said. The three women gave the same awkward, huffing kind of laugh that Lucy did.

“I’m Carole,” said the tall woman.

“Becca,” said the redhead.

“Christine,” said the brown-haired woman.

“I’m Lucy. You remember your names from before?” Jealousy overwhelmed her at that moment, to think that they might.

“No,” said Christine. “They’re just names other people picked. When I got here, women called me Christine. Said I looked like a Christine. They’re all gone now. All dead.”

Lucy nodded, looking again at each woman, getting more used to them and their ways. They seemed so gentle, and sort of resigned, like Truman.

“Did you remember your name?” Becca asked.

“No, it was like with you. Someone called me that.”

“Not a food person, I bet,” said Christine. “They always call us something stupid—like Lucky or Skinny or Cutie. Dumb fucks.”

“No, it was a—one of us.”

“Your man?” asked Christine.

“Well,” Lucy hesitated. It was so weird, trying to explain it to them, and she didn’t know how they did things here. “Yes. I guess that’s what he is.”

“What happened to him? Dead?” asked Christine.

Lucy turned to study her more closely. She was so damned matter-of-fact. But it didn’t seem to Lucy as though the other woman didn’t care. She looked genuinely concerned and kind—as kind as dead people ever looked.

“They took him. They said something about the Dead End. I don’t know what that is.”

“Another place for us,” said Carole. “We hear about it. Food people like to go there, make fun of dead people. Not so bad. No food for dead people, but it’s safe. Mostly. He should be okay.”

“You want to have a man here?” asked Christine.

“What? What do you mean?”

“Some girls like it,” Christine said as she shrugged. “They stay in houses with men. The girl picks one and lets him touch her, lick her, hold her down sometimes, in front of others. It’s not like they can do anything, really, but the men like that. Makes them feel strong, in charge. If you want that, we can tell you which men are looking.”

“And which are nice,” said Becca.

Lucy looked from one woman to another. Becca appeared slightly embarrassed by the conversation, but Christine and Carole were completely unmoved and impassive—again, not uncaring, but just not upset, even though what they suggested seemed bizarre and sickening to Lucy.

“No, I don’t think I need a man. Can I stay here?” Lucy asked.

“Of course,” Carole said. “That’s why we sent Angie, so you’d come to us. It’s nice to have friends.”

“Yes, it is,” said Lucy. “I’ll stay here if you want.”

“Good,” said Christine. “You want something over that?” She pointed to the left side of Lucy’s face. “I don’t mind it with me, but some girls like to cover theirs.”

“Oh. Yes. Please.”

“Turn around.”

Lucy turned so her back was to Christine, who wrapped a coarse piece of cloth around her head and tied it in back.

“Thank you,” Lucy said.

“You’re welcome.”

That had been a few days ago. Since then Lucy had met more of the dead people in the compound. The population was mostly men, but there were quite a few women and even some children in the group. Most of the time all of them milled around aimlessly, or got in various kinds of trouble. Many weren’t as smart as the women Lucy first met, and most weren’t nearly as nice. Sometimes the dead men would wrestle and fight each other, but not to do any real damage. They had even made some clubs with padding on them for practice.

There were lots of places out of sight and earshot of the guards and people would gather and talk, or play simple games with dice or cards they had made. It was boring, but not nearly as bad as what Lucy had expected. She had also learned the real purpose for the camp: to send them out on patrols to kill other dead people that might threaten the city. Lucy was not sure how bad that would be, but the other women in her house spoke of patrols as very unpleasant and dangerous: an injury like Angie’s could be fatal, even if one made it back to the camp.

It was a bright, sunny day, and Lucy walked around to the side of their house, away from the guard towers. She had a small, old metal pot with her, and she placed it under one of the drain spouts from the gutters. The gutters were bent and broken all over the place, but she wanted to see if she could catch some rain water.

She remembered when Will had shown her and Truman how to drink water. It had been one of those pleasant, innocent, generous gestures of his, and Lucy thought it might be nice to share it with the other women sometime. It was funny how they’d forgotten how to do that on their own, but also funny how it was still so enjoyable. They’d forgotten so much, but to forget how to have joy? That was a truly bizarre curse.

Once she’d done this errand, Lucy came back around the house to the yard in front of the guard towers. She always looked down when she walked in that part of the camp—better not to draw their attention and more abuse or mockery. The guy who liked how she looked was a special nuisance and would demand some display of her body or he’d make it unpleasant for her and her friends all day.

As she walked, an older dead man passed near her and grabbed her arm. Lucy looked up, and although his face was dull and slack, there was no mistaking that look of lust—even without sex, the need to dominate and use another person was still driving him on, perhaps more strongly than it had in life. Lucy, being new to the camp and physically small, had probably brought this urge out in him.

He had a hold of her left forearm, and Lucy spun and twisted his arm around as she smashed him in the side of the face with her right fist. With a shriek, she wrenched her arm free and punched him again, kicking him in the knee as well. Then she stepped back and growled at him. Dumb, sick bastard. It was bad enough, having to put up with the living. Her own people ought to know better.

Catcalls came from the tower. “Oh! Old guy wants some! You gonna give him some, sugar?” They laughed.

The dead man charged, getting his arms around Lucy’s chest and slamming her against the wall of one of the buildings. She was afraid the whole thing would collapse, it creaked so loudly and gave way so much as he pressed her against it. Then he started humping against her and grunting; with his size and leverage, Lucy couldn’t push him off herself. Fucker didn’t even know why he was doing it, probably, but just had that urge, like a fucking dog. The catcalls from the tower increased, along with hysterical laughter, and they were joined now by moans and grunts from a gathering crowd of dead.

Lucy roared with rage and disgust, as she grabbed the man’s ears and pulled. The one in her right hand came off and she flung it aside, but that only seemed to make his thrusting against her redouble. She dug her thumbs into his eyes as she brought her mouth down on the back of his skull and tore off a piece of scalp with her teeth. Not like real flesh—it was brittle and bitter and she spit it out as she finally pushed him back. He landed on his ass, clutching at his face and whimpering. Fucker wasn’t just stupid and sick—he was weak, too. How could he even think, in his rotted-out brain, to touch her? Lucy leaned her head back, her fists at her sides, and howled, trying to release all her revulsion and fury.

The laughter continued from the guard tower. Then one of them called, “Finish him off, darlin’.”

Lucy looked up at the tower, then at the crowd. One dead man tossed a length of pipe that landed at her feet. Lucy looked back to the tower. Fuck them. Like she was going to do their dirty work? Give them more to laugh at? All she’d wanted to do was get the sick bastard off herself, and she’d done that. She considered raising her middle finger, as she remembered that was the right gesture under the circumstances, but worried that might be pushing it. She kicked the pipe and turned to walk away.

As she entered their home, Lucy could hear the thuds of the other dead men beating the one who had attacked her. There was a wail, which was joined by many more until it was a roar of agony and triumph, while the thumps were accompanied by tearing, ripping sounds. Then there was just moaning that gradually trailed off until it was indistinguishable from the light wind.

Lucy found Carole standing where she had been when they first met. Lucy didn’t look out the window where Carole was staring, but just walked past her, and into the back room. She sat down next to Christine on the sofa. It had become their usual seating arrangement, and Lucy had come to accept and even long for the other woman’s stoic responses and attitude. Lucy leaned against the larger woman, drawing on her solid strength.

“Somebody get killed?” Christine asked.

“Yeah.”

“Anybody we know?”

“No. Just some guy.”

“Good. You okay?”

“I guess. Not really.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

They sat there and were joined eventually by Carole and Becca. The four sat as the faint light in the room faded into a darkness far more embracing and hopeful than the piercing, harsh light ever could be.

“Will, you seen my shoulder holster?” Rachel called. He was still in the shower, and she was rummaging around in a pile of clothes next to the bed. She wished she had a better place to put her stuff, but Will had refused to buy much furniture at that store with the funny sounding name.

“What? I think I saw it downstairs, hanging on one of the door handles.”

“Okay.” Rachel twisted her arms back to hook her bra. The things were a bitch to get used to, either in terms of putting them on, or how they chafed and squeezed in all the wrong places. She stepped into the steamy bathroom and wiped off the mirror to admire how well the garment did its job. She put her hands behind her back, pulled back her shoulders, then brought her arms up over her head. Yeah, it sure was a different look, as were the shaved pits.

She felt a little funny, putting the girls on display like that. You’d laugh at a guy if he stuffed a sock in his pants, but this was different—it was just helping out what you already had. Besides, if that’s how things were done around here, you had to go with it. Same for the little bit of lipstick she put on now. She wouldn’t get all dolled up like that tramp Julia, but you had to look nice, if that’s how everyone else dressed and kept themselves.

“Okay, hon,” Rachel said as she pulled on a t-shirt and tucked it into her jeans, ruffling her hair and admiring her bust just a bit more. “I got to go meet Ken and walk to the construction site. Don’t want to be late.”

Will pulled back the shower curtain and she leaned in to give him a little peck. “Blech,” he laughed when he tasted the lipstick. “I don’t like that stuff.”

She smiled at him. “Love you. I’ll see you later. We can tell each other how work went.”

“Love you.” Was there that hurt, suspicious tone? Rachel liked to hear a little bit of that, but she didn’t want him getting all weird on her. Her wild days were past, and she just wanted to have the normal level of jealousy from her man—the amount that kept him attentive and interested, but not stalking you or getting abusive or looking around on his own. As predictable as guys were, they still took some fine-tuning to get them right where you wanted them. She’d be extra nice when she got home tonight and he’d be fine.

Rachel got the .38 short barrel off the floor next to the bed—again, no extra furniture like a nightstand, as per Will’s instructions. Walking down the stairs, she swung the cylinder out, even though she knew there was a round in each chamber. Rachel snapped the cylinder back in place, the steel cold and reassuring on her palm. It took her a second to find the shoulder holster, but it was hanging on the handle of the hall closet, just as Will had guessed. Carrying a gun that way just felt more comfortable than at her hip, especially if she were sitting and operating a vehicle. She strapped the holster on and stowed her weapon, checking herself one more time in the hall mirror.