Order of the Dead (15 page)

36

Knapp was chagrined, but not put off entirely. In fact, Corks’s words had
reminded him of another point, which he’d forgotten to make earlier, inept as
the workings of his mind seemed to be at the moment, and he couldn’t for the
life of him figure out why the gears in his head were rusty in their turning.

“It’s not just
the zombies,
”
Knapp said, stabbing his forefinger upward again as if to say this was the real
coup de grâce, except that his finger wouldn’t say that because his mind didn’t
know what that was, so he rotated his finger and thrust it farther upward, as
if to make the point that he was replacing his previous argument with this one,
and, in his mind, he was. He began to nod enthusiastically and look around the
room for support. Some of the townspeople were now rolling their eyes, but a
few were nodding in agreement.

“He’s right,” someone said.

“Yeah,” blurted another supporter.

Tom sighed inwardly.

“Right or not, let him speak his
piece,” someone else said. “Fair is fair.”

Tom shrugged. “Of course, go ahead
Knapp, but don’t take all day.”

Bolstered, Knapp got to his feet,
tottering ever so slightly.

“Like I was saying
,
” Knapp
said, “it’s not just the zombies.” He raised a hand to his mouth and belched.
“It’s also the
others
out there that we should be worrying our pretty,
happy heads about. The others who want to get in here and…”

Looking around, he saw by the looks of
the townspeople around him that some of them were enthralled by his sermon. This
made him brave enough to rise up on his tippy toes and speak louder, and he
even eased the mental clamps he was trying to hold on the slur of his tongue.

“Steal our children,” he said. The
words seemed to have flown from his mouth too quickly and suddenly he felt
tired and unsure, afraid even. Still, he kept at it. “You know who I mean. You
know damn well who. The…
Fleshers.
”

“Sit back down, Knapp,” Chase Ham
whispered softly but firmly, resisting the urge to tug the man back down by his
unkempt shirttails.

As corpulent as his name suggested,
how Chase Ham the Ham-ster managed to stay so fat when there was so little
food, no one was sure, but someone always seemed to find a way to do it. In the
case of New Crozet, he was that someone. He certainly couldn’t chase anything
down, except for a stationary ham, perhaps, and if he’d ever been capable of
chasing, he’d evidently eaten all the ham he’d caught up with, and hence lost
all chasing abilities.

At least that’s how the townspeople
joked about it when they talked about him behind his back as they turned him
through the New Crozet gossip mill, as it were, squeezing the lard from him,
which, one would hope, would taste faintly of bacon. He knew he was fat, and he
was a good sport about it, too, always encouraging the kids in a half-joking
way that they needed to fatten themselves up, because who knew when the food
would run out. Unfortunately, it was a real concern, and one they all tried not
to dwell on.

Thank God for my slow metabolism, he
thought, I can live on my God-given reserves for months if it came to it, and
he hoped to God it wouldn’t.

“Maybe crawl back in that bottle,” Ned
Klefeker added, and his wife, Irene, gave him a reproachful look, which he
didn’t turn to look at, although he knew it was there.

A few chuckles tussled their way
through the stuffy gathering, blowing some of the tension out of the air.

Grinning mildly, Amanda Fortelberry
squeezed her cane with two arthritic hands. This was turning out to be a much
more exciting town meeting than she’d expected. When Knapp was on, he never
failed to deliver, and boy was he showing promise right now.

“Come on Larry,” she said in a low
voice and hoping for a show, “get on with it.”

A few of the townspeople close to her heard
what she said, and though Knapp didn’t, he went on as if he
had, his resolve
growing.

“We have to be ready for them!” he
shouted. “They know where we are. They know where
all
the towns are, and
they’re just out there, waiting for us to slip up, to go out there or let them
in through some weak place in the fence. So they can have us. So they can
eat
us!

“All we do is farm and dawdle and
chitter chatter while we eat Nell’s roasted bugs or Senna’s peaches—and they
are
glorious,
Senna—but, be all that as it may be, we have to be ready
to fight them! Have no doubt that we’re square in their sights, in the cross
hairs, and they’re coming for us. Dare I say it, they’re coming for us
now.
”
The last word he uttered was low and ominous, delivered far better than Knapp
himself had expected. A half-grin of satisfaction crawled onto his face.

“Oh my,” Amanda Fortelberry said, quite
pleased, and this time it was loud enough for everyone to hear.

When Tom Preston’s and the Stucky
woman’s disapproving glances found her—the Stucky woman’s was part disapproval
and part perplexity—Amanda was all the more satisfied. She sat straighter, and
returned Tom’s and the Stucky woman’s looks with one of her own, the equivalent
of a raise.

I see your perimeter rules, and I
raise you the bunker policy.

This was proving to be an enjoyable
meeting after all. Nothing like small, post-apocalyptic town politics.

“Oh my indeed, Mrs. Fortelberry,”
Knapp said. “
Oh my
is right. We have to do something now. We already
waited too long and it’s only by luck that we’ve gotten away with it all these
years. And I don’t care how hidden y’all think we are. We ain’t that hidden at
all.” His eyes lit up with inspiration and he licked his lips.

“Think of it this way,” he said, his
eyes scanning the room as he turned all the way around so he could see
everyone, “think of it, as an
investment,
and
invest…
in our
safety and the safety...of your
children.
” Now this truly was a sermon,
and they were captivated gosh darn it.

Maybe, he thought, he’d missed his
true calling, and now, in the old church’s piety, he was finally finding his
way. Images of lambs and flocks appeared in his mind, together with shepherd’s
crooks and something about not straying from the flock or the crook or
something to that effect. He’d never paid much attention in church on the few
occasions when his parents had forced him to go when he was a child, and now he
wished that he’d been more attentive, because the moment seemed ripe to insert
a relevant Bible verse, or a vague reference to one, at least. He could manage
neither.

Instead, Knapp turned his hands palms
upward and shaped his face into a belligerently wide-eyed glare, as if to say,
‘Do you get it now, stupid?’

They didn’t.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. They
did understand the risk he was describing. They’d encountered the people he was
speaking of before—not all firsthand, of course, but hearsay was more than
enough when it came to meetings with the Fleshers and other outlaws.

But, they were all tired of talking
about it, exhausted in fact, and most were feeling much too cheery what with
the market coming the next day, to want to bother with such depressing talk.

“What is it with you always trying to
get people riled up?” Corks said.

“I only speak the truth,” Knapp said.
He clasped his hands together in a gesture of prayer, his fingers interlaced,
all innocent-like.

“Who are you kidding?” Corks said. “We
have enough space underground for the children if it comes to it, and we have
more than enough defenses, and some of us, the
ability,
to actually
carry out a defense.”

“Just what do you mean by that?” Knapp
shouted. “What are you accusing me of?
I’m
not
lazy.
I’ll
work.
I
do
work.”

Corks said nothing.

Knapp coughed up some phlegm, really
working it up, helping it climb up his throat bit by sticky bit, then chewed the
salty ooze over in his mouth, sucking on it and considering. “You think I’m
just trying to scare these good folks, that I won’t do anything, that I’ll just
sit on my soft, flabby ass while everyone else does the work. That what you’re
saying? That I’m just trying to scare you good people into building me a house underground
where I can drink and be merry under the weeds?”

Corks pressed his lips into a line,
and, letting the anger get the better of his fingers, scratched too hard at one
of the mosquito souvenirs on his face. The bite, which was above his temple,
popped, and a spot of blood oozed from it. It crawled down the side of his face
then stopped suddenly, seeming to have changed its mind.

“You’re gonna bleed out if you stay
that darn angry,” Knapp said. “The skeeters have left enough holes in you for
that. All the blood’ll boil right out. And I wouldn’t want that, now would I,
because I need your
manpower
to build me a house under the trees because
I’m too lazy to do it myself? Ain’t that right?”

“That’s enough,” Tom warned. “Let’s
move on.”

“I said what I had to,” he blurted.
“You all know it. You all know about
them.
It ain’t just the
hallucinatings or goings-on and ramblings of some drunk. They’re out there. The
zombies, the
Fleshers,
maybe even the
damned Order of the Dead,
all of them. Out there.” He pointed west, then spun all the way around.
“Everywhere. And they’re
hungry.
”

“I said,” Tom said, his tone growing
heated, “
that’s enough.
” He was gripping the edges of the bare lectern,
but not very hard, not tightly enough to turn his knuckles white, but if there
was more talk of the Order of the Dead, that would change.

Though they’d all heard of the Order
of the Dead, most didn’t believe it existed. What kind of cannibals would act
that way, and why? It had to be a myth, made up to make the outlaws look even
scarier—assuming that was possible—and keep children in the settlements.

Knapp crossed his arms, making a show
of how offended he wanted them to think he felt, looked around, shrugged
emphatically as if to say, ‘Well, I fuckin’ tried, and y’all are still damned
idiots,’ and sat back down.

Knapp frowned, shrugged two more
times, and then two more times, but he was done making words. He looked down
between his feet and saw a daddy longlegs exploring the tips of his shoes. He
snarled at it, lifted his foot, and brought the heel of his left shoe slowly down
on top of it, evoking a mild crunch.

Chase Ham, who was still sitting next
to Knapp, though he’d sidled away some during the argument, whispered behind
his plump palm, “Now why’d you go and do that? They’re harmless. All they do is
eat flies.”

Knapp rolled his eyes. “Harmless? Harmless?
Ain’t no such thing on this green and zombie-infested Earth.” He scowled and
shot a dirty look at Chase, and then at his own untucked and filthy shirttails.

For some reason, that seemed to calm
him. He looked up at Tom at the lectern, and for the first time in a long while
at these meetings, actually began to pay some attention—as much as his
booze-soaked grey matter would allow. He’d said his piece, and, once again, the
damned fools hadn’t listened to a word.

They’ll have to learn the hard way, he
knew, and ain’t that a damn shame?

37

After spending a few minutes reviewing the market setup for the next day, Tom
called the meeting to a close, and the townspeople began to get up and make
their way to the exit.

Some were dawdling, talking over the
weather and crops and their predictions for the bits of news the traders would
bring. Knapp was keeping to the fringes of the crowd, wiping at his nose and
muttering to himself.

Senna and Alan went over to Tom, who
was still standing by the lectern, frowning up at the scaly ceiling. A paint
chip fell down and stuck in his beard, and when Senna got closer, she saw that
there were paint chips on the floor around his shoes, and more in his hair and
on his shirt. When she was near enough she reached up and brushed the debris
from his shoulders, and picked a few pieces of the peeled paint out of his
beard.

“Thinking about dyeing that thing?” she
said, removing the last bit of paint from Tom’s beard, which was washed with
grey.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tom said. “Very funny.
Someone’s got to sand and paint that damned ceiling one of these days, and it
sure as hell won’t be me.”

“Not big on heights?” she teased.

“Jovial as you are today,” he said,
putting his hands on his hips and rocking backward on his heels, “maybe you
ought to get up there.”

“Tom,” Alan said, injecting an air of
seriousness into the conversation, “something strange happened at the gate last
night, when we took Rosemary there.”

“Oh?” Tom said, looking worried. He
ran a hand through his hair, ejecting some more paint chips. “Rosemary didn’t
say anything. Hasn’t said much of anything at all since, come to think of it,
least not to me.”

“Rosemary did just fine,” Alan said.
“It wasn’t anything to do with her, it was the zombies themselves. There…there weren’t
enough.”

Tom frowned. “You expected more?”

“Yeah. There are always more, even
this close to market.”

Senna gazed at Tom firmly, her
playfulness of a few moments before entirely gone.

A paint chip fell on the toe of Alan’s
boot.

Tom chewed on his lower lip, furrowed
his brow, and half-shrugged. “Well, what do you think it means?”

“I don’t know,” Senna said.

“It could be nothing,” Alan said,
“or…”

“Or?” Tom said. “Or what?”

“There could be someone in the woods,”
Alan said.

“So what?” Tom said. “The traders are
coming. Maybe some of them came early and set up camp somewhere.”

“Tom,” Senna said, “listen to what
you’re saying. Why would anyone do that? It’s too dangerous for anyone to make
camp out there. Why spend any more time outside a settlement than absolutely
necessary?”

Tom’s expression grew darker. A paint
chip detached itself from the ceiling, fell lazily down—almost drifting—and landed
on his nose. Tom sniffed and rubbed at his nose to keep from sneezing, and when
he started talking again, he seemed all the more irritated.

“Well, seeing as you’ve got all the
answers,” he said, “why don’t you deal with it yourself? And just what do you
expect me to do about it, anyway? Maybe I should close off the town, cancel the
market? All on account of what, the fact that
not enough
zombies showed
up at the gate last night? That’s a good thing, remember? Hell, that’s a great
thing. Maybe they’re dying off. It’s a fucking miracle if you ask me. Maybe
this goddamned planet will have a future after all.”

“Tom,” Alan said, “we don’t have any
answers. But, what we saw might’ve meant something. Let’s just all be careful
in the coming days. It’s probably nothing.”

Tom grunted. “Okay, whatever you say.
Because we usually aren’t careful, right?”

“Tom,” Alan began, “that’s not what I
meant, I just—”

“Forget it,” Tom said. “I have work to
do.” He began to walk away, shaking his head and muttering to himself, looking
a little bit too much like Knapp. Then he turned and added, sarcastically,
“Just be sure to keep me apprised of any other
strange
activity at the
fence.” With that, he left.

When he was gone, Senna turned to
Alan. “What’s he so mad about?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I’m sure he’s just
stressed about the market. There’s a lot to do to keep the town safe. A lot to
coordinate.”

“Sure, there’s that, but he’s done it
before. You think everything’s okay with him at home?”

Alan shrugged. “I haven’t heard
otherwise. He and Elizabeth and Rosemary seem fine, like always. Come on, let’s
go for a walk.”

“Okay,” Senna said, her face
brightening. “Sounds good.”

She took his hand and the two of them
made for the exit. They had to stop when they reached the mass of people
waiting to file out through the narrow doorway.

Sunlight was streaming in the door,
casting a concentrated beam on the cracked tile just inside the threshold, over
which many pairs of New Crozet feet were moving, clad in worn shoes.

While they were waiting for their turn
to leave, Alan buried his face in Senna’s hair. She smelled amazing, even
better than usual. She squeezed his hand, and he could tell from the movement
of her neck muscles against his face that she was smiling.

He breathed in, moving his nose around
the back of her neck until he felt goose bumps rise on her skin. His breathing sped
up, and then hers did, and then she was pulling him closer to her and pushing
past some of the others who were taking too long to leave.

She and Alan had somewhere to be. They
had very important business to transact.

They squeezed out of the church over
some mild protest from those they gently brushed aside. Like children, they
took turns playfully chasing each other through town until they reached their home.
They made it a few steps into the house, and then they were on the floor, rolling
around in the next phase of their game, taking turns on top of each other.

Back at the church, the last of the procession
of townspeople filed out. Larry Knapp stood holding the door open, with a
displeased look on his face, but bowing to the departing every so often.

He’d meant to bring something up at
the meeting besides the bunkers, had forgotten to do so, had now remembered
that he’d forgotten, but still couldn’t remember what it was he’d meant to say.
He cursed under his breath and a few disapproving looks landed smack on his
forehead, pop, pop, pop.

Damn puritans, he thought. Screw that.

What he wanted was to remember. His
memory had been troubling him recently, and he was forgetting a lot more than
he should have been. He stood there for a few moments longer, furrowing his
brow and trying to recall what he’d wanted to complain about, and he was still
in his usher position when a current of cold air breathed its way past him.

It entered the church and traveled up
the nave, past the empty pews that were in dire need of polish and repair. The cool
draft found the stack of disused Bibles in the corner, and there it set a
skeletal mass of dust motes swirling around the once-holy books.