The Veil (Testaments I and II) Page 2

  CHAPTER THREE

  As the months pass, things do change but never for the better. At first their visits to the Station were sporadic. We blasted them from the walls as they wandered around looking for a way in. The number of visits and the frequency increased. We could hear them outside pounding our walls with their fists, beating with their heads against shop shutters. It was easy back then. Just lean over the wall, aim and fire.

  Did I say easy? I’ve been here too long.

  There’s nothing easy about shooting a person. And they still look just like people. They’ve got their smart suits on or skirts and jackets. They’re wearing expensive leather shoes. They look a little untidy, a little unwashed. They stare at you and their eyes plead. They can’t speak but they can wail. They can sob. They hold out their hands to you as though they’re beggars on the verge of starvation, their faces weaken into looks of privation and their eyes, their lively, imploring eyes impart the deepest sense of utter poverty and need. God, if the world was the way it used to be, you’d take them in your arms and hold them tight, give them all the love and money they asked for. But nothing’s the way it used to be. If you let them touch you they’ll drag you away to wherever it is they hide and you’ll come back, mute save for your tears, with that same want in your eyes. So you direct the barrel of a firearm at them, at the heads if you’re serious about stopping them looking at you that way. If you’re serious about staying alive. If you’re a Stopper. If you belong on the Kill Crew.

  And calm as anything, calm as you can, without blinking at the report or the gun bucking in your grip, you bring the trigger home and release the lead. And the sobbing stops. And you sigh again and again. And maybe you throw up or, if you can’t take in what you’ve just done, you throw up the second time and the third and the fourth. And often, as you grind your teeth, and the blasting of human heads, the murder of others becomes easier, you find yourself muttering under your breath at the sobbing, plaintive, whining, relentless zombies that used to make this city run, and you’re saying: “Shut up, you motherfucker. Shut up, motherfucker. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.”

  And sometimes you’ll mutter the very same thing as you walk around the alleys of the Nielsen and McKinley Station, surrounded by your allies and friends and lovers and acquaintances. And no one will say a word about it to you because everyone understands what you do. You’re Kill Crew. Without you the Station dies, too.

  Just because it was safe yesterday doesn’t mean it will be safe today. Just because they didn’t move during daylight yesterday doesn’t mean they won’t move in it today. We’ve all got this feeling of progression and development. Almost as though they have some kind of plan. How that can be so when they never speak, I don’t understand. But just because they didn’t speak today, it doesn’t mean they won’t speak tomorrow.

  One thing we’re fairly certain of is their growing numbers. If they’re not getting people from us, they must be taking them from somewhere else. That means there are others out there, trying to survive just like we are. So far we haven’t gone far enough in a day to find where they are. We’re trapped by the length of a day. We can go half a day in any direction as long as we’re back by nightfall. But that’s not a job for the Kill Crew. That’s the job for a search party.

  Crewing tonight we have Naomi Birchfield, Winni Grant, Forrest Rubin, Lee Granger, Frieda Hartley, Monty Spence and yours truly, Sherri Foley. More women than men. That’s lotteries for you. I’m not complaining; the Long Silence has evened things up between the sexes. We’re down to a couple hundred souls. Crewing has become both an obligation and a right.

  Up here on the sidewalk it’s still dusk but the natural light of day is fading and the unnatural glow of the new nights is overwhelming it. It’s like the night doesn’t belong to us anymore. Like it doesn’t even belong to the world anymore. This is a night none of us recognize but it’s one we’re learning to live with.

  First task is to trace the edge of the Station, make sure it’s clear before we move off. This part is easy. We’re within touching distance of safety and other Stoppers are up there on the walls watching over us as we make our circuit. We check for signs of attempted entry, evidence of new methods.

  Near a rusted-shut padlock, I find something. “Fucking freaks. Check this out, Monty.” I hold up splintered fragments.

  “Jesus,” he says. “That’s novel.” The others crowd around my open palm.

  “Not too bright, are they?” says Naomi.

  The others laugh but it’s a little too jolly. Only Monty and I remain serious.

  “They don’t have to be smart,” he says. “Not when they’re this determined. What must it take to do something like this?”

  “A top-dollar dental scheme?” says Naomi. This time we all laugh even though it’s not funny that a Commuter has tried to bite through a steel lock. It’s disturbing. Thinking about the clamping of the jaw and the subsequent failure of dentition, how it must have sounded, how it felt. It makes my skin shrink and pucker.

  Winni Grant lays a hand on my shoulder. I guess my disgust must show.

  “You okay, Sherri?”

  “Fine. We should probably keep moving.”

  Monty nods and we head off. Five minutes into the shift and already Cain’s stock is slithering in my hands. I wipe each hand on the thigh of my jeans as we patrol. It doesn’t make any difference. Back in V-formation we head west on McKinley. We work around the abandoned cars but most of them are parked up neatly and the road is pretty clear.

  Daylight is all but gone. Now we walk through tenebrous night the color of bile.

  Lee Granger and Forrest Rubin have fallen out of formation. I listen to what they say.

  “I’m telling you, Lee, this is caused by radiation of some kind.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like those glow in the dark toys they used to put in boxes of cereal. They were radioactive. That’s why they don’t put them in these days. Stop kids growing a second head or whatever.”

  “No one’s making Count Chocula anymore, Forrest.”

  “You know what I’m saying.”

  “Okay, so where did this radiation come from?”

  “I think it was a bomb, some kind of weapon.”

  “Yeah? So where’s the invasion force?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Sure. There should have been brigades of enemy troops here by now. There’s nothing.”

  “Shit, Lee. Grow a fucking brain here, man. The Commuters are the invaders. The first wave, at least.”

  “No. They were already here.”

  “Exactly. What could be smarter than that? Turn the enemy population against itself. Make everyone crazy and let your target country melt down from the inside. Then, when there’s no one left to fight you, that’s when you move in. I think we’re just waiting for the second wave. One night we’ll be out here crewing and we’ll run into some real fucking soldiers. That’ll be our last turkey shoot, right there.”

  Forrest’s theory isn’t watertight. None of the theories are. Still, it’s given Lee something to think about. Apparently Lee Granger can’t think and talk at the same time and for that I’m glad. I like a silent shift. That way, I know everyone’s concentrating on the job.

  Even though my palms are sweating, I’m shivering. I don’t know why but I’m not feeling the pulse tonight, I don’t have my inner rhythm. I’m having problems keeping my mind on what’s out here in front of me, even though my eyes flick from side to side and I can’t think about anything else but where we’re going to find Commuters. Something’s not right and suddenly I’m wondering, is this what it means to get a bad feeling? And I think: has part of me died already?

  Is this my last trip out on the crew?

  Up ahead, Monty holds up a hand and we halt. It’s early to be seeing Commuters this close to the Station so maybe it’s nothing. Or maybe it’s just a cat chasing a rat between the dumpsters in an alley. None of the animals seem to be affected. Monty
doesn’t move. Fingers click safeties off. Seven people hear nothing but their own breathing and heartbeat in a deserted, night time city street. I’ve stopped counting how many times I’ve done this. Even in this partial light, I can see Frieda Hartley trembling. I’d put a hand out to steady her if I didn’t think the shock of my touch would make her swing round and shoot me. Frieda’s a non-volunteer. This is her second shift on the crew so she already knows how bad it’s going to be.

  We wait.

  I can’t tell why Monty hasn’t moved on until I see the silhouetted group of Commuters stepping out from both sides of the street. He’s shocked because this is different behavior. Not smart necessarily, but organized. Premeditated. The Commuters have been waiting for us. Maybe they even placed themselves here last night so that they’d be ready for us when we arrived.

  Monty gives a signal for us to spread out across the street. He won’t let us shoot yet because there’s no point in wounding them. It just makes them mad. You have to wait until you’re clear for a head shot. When they’re in range, he’ll let us fire at will.

  But if they were waiting for us, how did they know which route we’d take from the Station? The answer is, they couldn’t possibly know. All they could do was wait in every street. I don’t want to turn around because I know what I’m going to see.

  Frieda turns her face toward me, looking for some kind of reassurance, I guess. I go to her and whisper what I believe are the words she needs to hear.

  “Do not be afraid. Be efficient. Be a surgeon. Stay calm and stay next to me. Okay?”

  She nods, eyes staring.

  But she’s not staring at me. She looking at what’s behind me and now I have to turn around.

  Commuters. Dozens of them. Converging on us.

  There’s no point sneaking around anymore.

  “Monty,” I say and he turns, angry until he sees what I’ve seen.

  His decision is instant and unprecedented.

  “Fall back to the Station. Stay together. Take as many as you can.”

  “Can we shoot them yet?” asks Frieda.

  I giggle. I don’t know why.

  “Fuck, yes,” says Monty.

  And hot lead erupts into the street.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Seven’s always been enough. Even when things go wrong.

  Tonight, seven is not a magic number.

  We walk – we do not run – east, back to the Station. I must have been deep in thought because we’ve come a lot farther than I realized. We reform the V but now I’m on point and Monty’s on my right tail. Frieda’s right beside me, too fucking close really but it’s my own fault for telling her what I did. Commuters close in from both sides and we dispatch them as soon as they’re close enough.

  Here comes a typical suit from my left. Some guy with duck’s disease – his ass is too close to his feet. A paisley tie – hard to tell if it’s silk in this gloom – and tasseled leather piss-catchers on his feet. No style. Probably a fucking accountant. He looks miserable enough. I shoulder Cain and pop the guy’s noodle from ten feet. Ten feet is not a long way. It’s three steps. Maybe four for a short-ass Commuter like this one. He doesn’t take any more steps. Usually there’s time to watch them collapse to the street. Never happens the same way twice and, as sick as it makes me to kill anything, even these wailing bags of bones, I like to watch that shit. There’s unique poetry in the way a body falls. Like throwing I-Ching coins or something. Therein you could see your future. I can’t get enough of that shit.

  But not tonight. It’s way too busy. Already some PA type chick with her hair up and still wearing her glasses after all these months totters toward me on heels that could be weapons. I pump Cain up. He blows. She goes down. Finally, messy and disheveled. I pump again. Guy with no jacket or tie, shirt open at the neck. Must have been at lunch when his world ended. Now it ends again.

  To my right, I can hear Frieda firing too many shots, too close together. She’s missing heads with more than half of them, so now there’s half-shot Commuters screaming in pain and desperation and still after her along with all the others. If they take her, it’ll be me next. I’ve got a few seconds so I reload Cain and take out four of Frieda’s new friends. But by now, I’m angry.

  “You calm the fuck down, lady,” I shout. “You wait until they are in range. You aim carefully, and only when you are sure, will you fire. Do you understand?”

  “I know, I know. I’m sorry.” She’s crying so hard she can barely see through the tears, barely hold her weapon steady over her spasming solar plexus.

  “Don’t be sorry, Frieda. Be precise. Then maybe we’ll all get home.”

  Course my side’s filled up again and aim-boom, aim-boom, aim-boom, aim-boom.

  The way is clear.

  Cain is hot now. Hotter than he wants or ought to be. I don’t know how many more shots he’s got before he’s more of a danger to me than the Commuters. Still, I reload - no choice - and burn my knuckles on his sleek, black barrel. I’m not used to this intensity though and out of the corner of my eye I see some CEO type in an Italian suit that fits like he was born in it. He’s got slicked back hair and for all I know he styled it before he came out. I fumble the last shell into Cain’s hungry breech but the CEO’s got his arms out and he’s got a hold of my hair before I can pump.

  Jesus, I think, this really is my last trip out. The beginning of my new ‘life’ with the Commuters, a life of purest lack. To the sound of a bomb going off, the CEO’s head disappears. Lee Granger’s fired his gun right beside my ear. Fucking nuclear agony but I’m still alive. I don’t hear myself say, “Thanks, Lee.” And there’s no time to see if he even heard me. I drop two more Commuters and then there’s a lull.

  I check behind and I’m relieved to see we’re all still here. Not the neatest formation but not a pack running scared either. Even Frieda seems to have taken a hold of herself. I sling Cain over my shoulder and hope he doesn’t melt his sheath. Now it’s Abel’s turn and that means everybody gets hurt. Because of his stallion-like kick, that includes me.

  Monty shouts, “They’re thinning out. Keep moving. We’re halfway there.” I’ve never heard him so breathless.

  You don’t fire Abel from the hip if you still want to be holding a shotgun after the fact. Abel belongs tightly drawn in to the shoulder. A shot from Abel doesn’t scatter so it’s worth using the sights. In this way, you’re assured of a bruised cheekbone and raw collarbone. The pain, swelling and stiffness can last for ten days. I assume if I keep doing it I’ll develop some kind of repetitive strain injury. Already I have problems uncurling my trigger finger for several hours following a shift on the crew. All this beats being dragged into the unknown by the Commuters.

  At least, I think it does. You’ve never seen such miserable looking individuals in your life. Lamenting some forgone thing none of us can define. Maybe it’s their souls, if that isn’t too religious a take on the whole thing. Maybe they’re in some kind of pain and we’re the antidote to it. Maybe they’re being controlled by some outside force none of us are aware of yet. Who the hell knows? But am I being too narrow minded here? Could it be that being a Commuter only looks bad from the outside? The motherfuckers may have attained nirvana for all I know. Maybe we’re the freaks; the Stoppers. Maybe we’re the aberrations and we don’t even know it. Maybe we’re the enemy.

  It doesn’t pay to think like this too long or too often. That’s when the siren voice of suicide begins to lull you, sends you to a long and early sleep.

  The antidote is a night crewing.

  See me. A woman. Carrying not one but three firearms and other lethal weapons I haven’t mentioned. How the hell could that happen, you ask? Everything I’ve been telling you, that’s how. And I’ll tell you something else: blowing away some whining deadbeat suit with a single blast from a pump-action shotgun goes a long way toward easing my PMS.

  “Oh, you like hard candy? Suck on this.”

  Watching a baseball-sized hole open up i
n this Commuter’s head is almost enough to stop me feeling Abel’s angry kick. Almost.

  The Commuters have thinned out. The Station is a few yards away. Soon we’ll all be firing backward to save our asses until we get back in.

  Monty’s shouting, “Drop the ladders! We’re coming over.”

  Faces appear at the crest of the nearest part of the wall. The faces of friends, survivors. The last humans alive for all we know. This is our family now, the Stoppers that hold out in the Nielsen and McKinley Station. Aluminum ladders with hooks appear over the wall. Two Stoppers wait at the top of each ladder, each armed with their favorite tools. No more Commuters stand between us and the wall. I reload, turn, and back away from the creatures of the city night, firing when necessary. Then my back is touching cold metal and then I’m climbing without looking back. From above, shots roast the air on either side of me but I’m glad. While that lead rains down, nothing can touch us.

  There’s a scream behind me and I stop to look down. Three Commuters have taken hold of Frieda. She’s trying to reload her gun but she’s spilling every cartridge onto the sidewalk because she’s attempting to struggle away from them at the same time.

  Someone’s shouting.

  “Reload and fire, Frieda! They won’t let go otherwise.” I realize it’s my voice.

  I see myself climbing back down the ladder.

  Everyone else is already on the ascent, thank God, but Monty’s not pleased.

  “Sherri, get back up here now.”

  “I’m not leaving her.”

  “It’s her own goddamned fault.”

  I’m still descending the ladder.

  “It’s only her second shift, Monty.”

  “You’re putting yourself at unnecessary risk.”

  I’d stop and bawl him out if there was time, tell him that risk is all we have left, all we know, and all we live for in this new world we call the Station. But I can’t spare the breath or the time to reply. Instead I’m talking to Frieda. It’s a bad scene. There are four of them on her now and more moving in from every direction. “Load your gun, babe. I’m right with you.”