ear again, brushing back the errant wisps of her hair like she had the last time they’d talked. That movement had driven Cleese crazy the last time he’d seen her do it.
This time kept the tradition.
'I… I’d like that,' she whispered. Almost imperceptibly, she reached out her hand and tugged at the bottom of his shirt, just at the hem.
Now it was Cleese’s turn for a broad smile to break out across his lips.
'I’d like that indeed,' she said leaning in and grinning mischievously. 'Oh, and for the record, pull a trick like that again in front of my men and I won’t pull my punches.' And then Chikara turned and silently walked back to rejoin her Warriors.
The Corral
An immense flock of birds circled high in the air over the rag-tag compound set up in an open field on the outskirts of town. The spiraling cloud was made up of aggressive crows and seagulls mostly, but smaller robins and sparrows flew alongside the larger birds like Pilot Fish. They shadowed their larger brethren and eagerly picked up any bits of meat left discarded. Having been reduced by their hunger and fear to a ravenous scavenging horde, the avian multitude wheeled about in the early morning’s sky like a pulsating Rorschach inkblot. Their mass cavorted in the air like kites set lose from their tethers, whirling reminders of an innocence now lost.
The green pastures spread out below were once fertile farm land, but now the fields lay forsaken and well on their way to seed. The hills rolled like emerald waves; terra firma breakers created by the undulating spasms of the Earth. Abandoned farms punctuated the silent and foreboding landscape like forgotten play sets, their crops left to rot now that no one was there to tend the fields. Half-starved farm animals milled about the hills and glens aimlessly; lost livestock dutifully sought the care of farmers, most of who were either dead or still in hiding. Cows and sheep grazed on low-lying grasses. Milking cows lowed with discomfort as their udders swelled to almost bursting. Columns of acrid smoke billowed dark and pungent from smoldering fires on the ground, their onyx plumes obscuring any view. Deep within the flames, corpses lay smoldering.
The flock lazily spun above the mass of activity which ebbed and flowed within the roadside encampment. The birds’ small, obsidian eyes locked in on the commotion as they continually scanned the landscape for any remnants of food left behind by Men—either living or dead. In truth, they weren’t in any position to be picky. Food was food and when the world went as crazy as it had, both man and beast were grateful for whatever provisions they could find.
Groups of heavily armed men and women roaming the countryside had become a common sight in the past few weeks; masses of humanity whose sense of dread could only be calmed by the possession of their weapons and by the safety of their vast numbers. In reality, it was their fear that brought them together and—like glue—kept them that way. An uneasy alliance had been forged more out of necessity than any real desire or sense of camaraderie, for when The Dead crawled from their moldy graves, men became afraid and their fear hung in the air like the black smoke from their fires. Every species responded to this fear in its own way: birds took flight and searched from overhead for food, stray livestock searched in vain for their owners, and Man had come together into a tribe and did what it had always done best—fight.
The militia was more than a hundred people strong and they wandered the camp in fits of nervous energy. More and more though, it was becoming obvious that the fear they’d felt in the beginning was being replaced by something resembling an unbridled bloodlust. In the last few weeks, these men and women had begun to work more as a fluid army rather than as a frightened mob. They had set about forging themselves, despite their panic and the obvious sense of danger, into a small but entirely self-sufficient military.
Every man, woman and child gathered here had endured the initial terror and confusion and was now bound and determined to be a survivor of this dark page in human history. Some had been lucky and got picked up by the group early in the conflict. Others were not so fortunate and were left to fight The Dead alone for days. Of those assembled, there were few who could not tell, if asked, horrible stories of loved ones and their 'Changing.'
The compound was not really anything more than a dozen or so Winnebagos pulled off-road and parked in a haphazard circle. Here and there, tents had been thrown up hastily, if for nothing else than to keep the cloud of flies from the group’s hastily scavenged food and to offer a safe place to catch an hour or two of much needed shut-eye. It was a slapdash set-up, but it was proving to be an effective one.
Off to one side, near the back, a corral for the captured Dead had been erected using split rails and whatever nails could be found lying around the nearby farmhouses. The fencing wasn’t particularly strong, but then again, it didn’t need to be. The Dead were fairly weak when alone, banded together it wasn’t their strength that was proving dangerous, but rather their numbers. Across the entrance to the pen, someone had spray painted a board to read 'Purgatory' and hung it with some old baling wire.
A gathered crowd was a constant around the railings. The Living all stood there, smoking and drinking and gawking at the restless Dead. All of them were sure to keep a safe distance from the railing and out of reach of anything inside, each having seen the cost of getting too close. But gather they did for they all felt a deep compulsion to try and understand—or rather to confront and come to terms with—the very beasts which had thrown their lives into such chaos.
'These dead-assed sumbitches… They ain’t shit!' one good ol’ boy was saying over the dusty top of his Meisterbrau can. He looked around at his red-eyed audience and gauged their compliance. He then cursed under his breath and wiped his hand absentmindedly at a dollop of bird shit that had splattered down one sleeve of his faded green Army jacket.
'The fuck they ain’t, Bubba. I’ll tell ya… I saw a group of ’em tear that ol’ boy Richard Johnson limb from fuckin’ limb over at McGurgie’s Feed Store,' another man was saying. 'You remember Dick Johnson, doncha? He was that big ol’ boy what worked over at the aluminum chair factory over in Harbison County. He married that ugly, thick-ankled gal from Eatherton with them big hooters. I tell ya, those dead bastards went after him like he was the main course at a got-dam Chinese boo-fay!'
Bubba shot a look of annoyance and absentmindedly crossed himself. 'Don’t speak ill of the dead, Cecil.'
'Shit… why the hell not? It’s not like they’s gonna hear us!'
The crowd laughed at Cecil’s wit which was usually about as sharp as a bowling pin.
'Anyway,' Bubba continued, 'seeing ’em thisa way… Hell. I don’t think much of ’em, ya know? Buncha slack- jawed, drooling motherfucks is what they is.'
Cecil sensed more comic gold here and offered, 'Well hell, Bubba… If they ain’t nothing and you’re so goddamn brave, why don’t you just jump inside that pen and give ’em a few licks?'
The crowd nodded its approval and punctuated the air with guffaws, half-formed opinions and snorts of hillbilly derision. As one, they all looked questioningly at Bubba, waiting for either an answer or for him to wisely back down.
'Sheee-it, Ceese, I may have fallen offa the goddamn stupid truck, but it wasn’t fuckin’ today,' Bubba said wiping at the accumulating dust in his eyes.
The crowd collectively nodded their approval at Bubba’s newfound wisdom. Most had come to know the man as just a 'cunt’s hair above a retard,' but sometimes, even a retard could have what the alkies called 'moments of clarity.' The group fell silent and considered the depths of what many called 'country wisdom.'
A sudden slow ripple started toward the back of the crowd; a slight disturbance in the throng which spread outward. A pair of men pushed their way through the multitude, politely asking to be excused but insistently moving forward, until they arrived at the side of the corral. To the crowd, it was evident that they were not from ’round here. Both their dress and demeanor said as much. The first man, the one who looked to be in charge, was built well, although not particularly tall, with short business-like black hair and a heavy brow which cast his eyes in perpetual shadow. The other guy was a regular Baby Huey: big, broad and muscular with hands like Easter hams.
'Gentlemen…' the in-charge guy said, pitching the volume of his voice at just below a shout. He bowed slightly toward one of the women in the crowd and smiled broadly, '…and ladies… My name is Weber… Joseph F. Weber and this…' He made a grand gesture toward his compatriot, '…is my associate, Jimbo. Say ‘Hello,’ Jimbo.'
