Head Dead West Read online

  She launches into an answer but I’m distracted to discover the hazel tint in her eyes. I blink, making myself focus on her words.

  “ . . . take advantage of any connections with the agency. You know: special vehicle permits, extra body tags, gondola passage to Portland. That’s not so bad. But, as I’m sure you know, some people,” and here she glances around again, “really hate what ODOZ is about. From both sides. Some want the living dead wiped out completely. Some want the restrictions on killing them wiped out completely. Some want the remaining few federal laws wiped off the books. Broadcasting that I’m with the agency would be almost as bad as you wearing that cross. Why are you wearing it, by the way?”

  One of my lively eyebrows cocks involuntarily. “Why do you think I’m wearing it?”

  “Irony? Hipster bravado? A misplaced fashion statement?”

  I make a show of checking off my fingers. “Nicely done. Those all played a part in the decision.” Now I glance around, my voice still lowered. “But another big reason is that I like picking on social norms.”

  Milly’s nose scrunches and her eyes smile, causing the constellation of her freckles to shift. “Really?”

  “Why not?” I say, pretending to be incredulous at her incredulity.

  Once more, her expression mellows to a mirroring kindness. “Well, flouting convention is one thing, but looking like a quack is another. You know how Oregon used to pride itself on being the most unchurched state? Well, now that it’s a Territory—a Territory formed around the Outbreak, no less—that pride has deepened. From what I hear, most folks don’t really mind religion. They don’t really care one way or the other. It’s the Rubies they hate. The rubies are always trying to control things.”

  “And the Rubies wear crosses?”

  “Most of them.”

  “And do they wear sidearms?”

  “Of course.”

  “So if I wear a sidearm, will people take me for a Rubie?”

  Milly rolls her eyes. “That’s different and you know it.”

  “Is it? I think I’d prefer folks ask me who I am before they assume to know. But maybe I should have worn a dress so they could wonder if I’m a woman. Or a powdered wig so they could think I’m a founding father. Or maybe a rainbow broach so they could assume I’m gay.”

  “You’re not gay,” says Milly, suddenly serious.

  “I’m not?”

  “Are you?”

  “Not unless you’re a man.”

  “That I am not.”

  “Then I am not gay.”

  “Well, you are crazy,” laughs Milly. “That’s clear enough. Where are you from?”

  “Blackfish, just outside of Waco.”

  “You mean Waco, D.C.?”

  “Yep, D.C., not the state, although I do have some family in Seattle.”

  A mischievous light sparks in Milly’s gaze. “Texas. I guess that comes as close to explaining you as anything can.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’re a strange one. You refuse to be controlled. You won’t be pressured. You believe you have the right to wear what you want, so you wear a symbol that dares people to challenge your right. You wear your rights like a badge. I don’t really know, I’ve never been to Texas, but that sounds Texan to me.”

  “Nice analysis. It gives me too much credit though. I’m less a good Texan and more a sucker for confrontational banter.”

  Milly clucks her tongue, reaching for my cross. “And for a minute I thought you really believed that some day the dead would rise without such a craving for brains and violence.” She lets the necklace go and sighs. “But it sounds like you’ll believe whatever gets the biggest rise out of people.”

  “Ah, Milly. That hurts. Just because I’m a non-conformist smart ass doesn’t mean I’m a wayward cynic.”

  “Well,” she sighs, asking with her eyes that I treat carefully what she’s about to say. “Then do you believe the dead can ever come back—not just to life, of course, but to a life worth living?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I’d like to.”

  Milly nods in earnest. “I wish I could believe that too. In fact, in a way, I kind of do.”

  She leans forward now, coming close for a whisper, a bit out of her dress. My white t-shirt collar suddenly feels too tight. “What do you mean?” I ask, even though it’s clear she’s about to tell me.

  “She means she’s an even bigger idiot than you are,” rasps a deep, familiar voice.

  The man in rawhide. His hat is down, his seat is tilted back, his eyes are closed, but it’s plain that he’s been listening to everything.

  “She’s a fed,” he continues, pushing up his hat brim with a raw knuckle, projecting his voice to make sure everyone in the car can hear. “They keep coming out here, supposedly looking for some pie in the sky Cure, poking the meat-heads, poking the citizens, taking blood from anyone and everything, writing laws that steal liberties in the name of putting an end to the plague. Just more damned priestcraft, boy, only updated to sound scientific and humane.” The big man snorts. “Ruse?” He sits up, sniggering. “You sure chose the right name, Milly. Although Milly Fraud would have been just a hair more honest.”

  Milly’s eyes tighten and I’m almost certain she’s asking herself, Should I kill him?

  “Jenny,” she says in a calm voice. “You’d better trade seats with me again.”

  Ten seconds later and I’m sharing concerned looks with the little girl as we listen to Milly and the big man argue about whether or not humanity has a responsibility to treat the living dead humanely. After a minute, the conductor enters the car and asks them to keep their voices down.

  “Damned if I will,” growls the man.

  The conductor, a prim man with a sharply waxed golden mustache, does not seem intimidated. “Mr. Yaverts, disobey my very reasonable and legally sanctioned order and I will report you to both ODOZ and Mayor Maplenut. Shoot me, and upon arrival in Charonville, the authorities will gag you, chain you, drive you up The Alley, and leave you for either the zombies or the Duchess—whoever reaches you faster.”

  Mr. Yaverts starts to rise, glaring at the conductor. He reaches slowly for his gun. “What if I shot you and hopped the train?”

  Jenny’s little hand is suddenly in mine.

  “Damn!” cries Yaverts, as though yelling boo in order to scare a child. He roars with laughter, free and easy, sitting back down and slapping his knee. “You don’t mess around, Timson. Never do, I guess. All right, I can respect a man who knows how to deliver threats. I’ll keep my righteous indignation down to a mealy-mouthed decibel level. I suppose everyone already knows Ms. Johnson here is a bleeding heart federalist commie.”

  “It’s Ms. Ruse,” says Milly through gritted teeth.

  “Oh, right. Not Ms. Johnson, and not Ms. Fraud, but Ms. Ruse. Hmm . . . ” Mr. Yaverts grins wickedly and cocks his hat over his eyes in dismissal. “Maybe you should hook up with that self-righteous pretty boy after all, Ms. Ruse. The two of you cavorting ‘cross the Territory could draw near as much attention as the Nameless One set loose.”

  Chapter Three

  The Station

  I’ve never heard of the Nameless One before, but by the way Jenny’s little hand digs into mine, I take it she has. She’s suddenly terrified. I’m about to ask her why when the train whistle shrieks and cuts me off.

  “About damn time,” grumbles Yaverts, standing up and grabbing for a satchel and rifle in the overhead.

  Another dozen folks follow his lead and begin rummaging for their gear.

  The conductor slides open the door behind us. “Next stop, Charonville, the end of the line. Everyone, prepare to deboard.”

  Charonville? The end of the line? “But that’s still on the outside of the Wall,” I say. “I thought the line ran all the way to Bentlam.”

  “Not for you, pretty boy.” Yaverts pushes past Milly and bulls his way down the aisle, obviously planning to be the first off the train.
r />   “Only zombies continue by train,” Milly explains. “The agency has two dozen pick-up points along the line where they unload quotas of the dead to keep regional numbers up. It all depends on where hunters are having success and where they’re not. We try to keep different areas equally stocked.”

  “Then what now?” I ask, a bad feeling already washing through my stomach. Once again my habit of winging things has landed me in trouble—in this particular case, the trouble of crossing the whole of the Oregon Zombie Preserve on foot.

  “We’ll all have to walk through customs to New Pokey,” says Milly. “From there, it’s either coach or horse or foot.”

  “To Bentlam?”

  Milly nods.

  “But that’s gotta be two hundred miles.”

  She shrugs. “Two hundred and sixty-two, by the main road. Why that face? You shouldn’t be worried. You look like you could run to Bentlam.”

  I groan. “Thanks, but what I can do and what I want to do are not always the same. Any chance the tech laws ease up on the highway? Maybe we can rent a car?”

  “Ha!” Milly shoots me a droll glance. “Don’t let anybody on the street hear you ask that. From what I hear, only big shots can get their hands on a car. You know, politicians or outlaws. Somebody hears you asking about renting a car and they’ll think you’ve got way too much money. You’ll have half the town trying to scam you or rob you outright.”

  “Well,” I say, a little deflated, “I guess there’s still the hope of a free wagon ride. My brother’s courier might be in town in the next few days. I know he’s due to ride east to stock up on merchandise and supplies. What about you, Jenny?” I give the little girl’s hand a squeeze. “Where are you headed?”

  “I don’t know,” whispers Jenny, her round face paler than ever. “My old house marm said . . . she said I was going to another orphanage. I don’t know where it is.”

  “Don’t worry,” says Milly, getting up and kneeling in the bustling aisle beside the girl’s seat. A few people grumble, a few people huff past, but she rolls her eyes and otherwise ignores them. “There’s a famous orphanage in Bentlam. Only the kindest, gentlest girls and boys are chosen to go there. That must be where you’re going. Or maybe you’re even going to Portland. I hear it’s almost as nice. Either way, I’m sure the moment you step off the train, someone will be waiting for you.”

  Jenny sniffles. “What about the . . . the . . . ?”

  “The dead?” Milly smooths the girl’s hair. “Don’t you worry about them. You’ll probably ride in a coach along the main road, with plenty of armed deputies. There won’t be any problems. You can close your eyes, take a nap, and chances are the next thing you know, you’ll be in the most wonderful city in the world.”

  “So it’s true?”

  Milly laughs, giving the girl a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”

  “Is Bentlam really a . . . a magical place?”

  “Well,” Milly holds up her palms, as though to say she’s not hiding anything. “I’ve never been inside Bentlam’s walls, but I’ve seen the city from across the valley and it’s just like the fairy tales. Maybe even better—like a gleaming seashell or a new summer moon turned into towers and walls and spires. And I’ve spoken with many, many people who have been in the city, and they say it’s like something out of a dream—the kind of dream you never want to end. You’re a very lucky girl to be going to a home there.” Milly knuckles at the girl’s chin and Jenny smiles.

  The moment strikes me with how easily hope can spark in the young. I’m not that old yet, but my hope’s tinder usually feels like it’s been drenched with rain. Jenny is suddenly more than a sweet, innocent girl. She’s an unwitting seer, a window into a strength I never want to lose sight of.

  A forgotten proverb is suddenly on my lips. “To carry on the feelings of childhood into the powers of manhood; to combine the child’s sense of wonder and novelty with the appearances which every day for perhaps forty years had rendered familiar . . . this is the character and privilege of genius.”

  A severely pockmarked man in a yellow straw hat snickers as he passes, catching my eye with scorn before stealing a leer at Milly’s backside.

  She stands up, hands on her hips. “Was that Coleridge?”

  I wink and tip my hat, playing down my show of culture, trying to hide how impressed I am that she could name the quotation’s source. “Come on, Jenny,” I say. “Let’s get you to your coach.”

  Five minutes later, the three of us are pressing through the crowds of the train station. My satchel is slung over one shoulder, my .32 special over the other. I’ve got Milly’s bag in one hand and Jenny’s in the other. There is no sight of anyone from an orphanage in Bentlam, no signs that read “Welcome Jenny!” or a governess surrounded by urchins—only the same odd mixture of motley and elegant that filled the train, part wealthy immigrants bound for Bentlam, part thrill seeking adventurers eager to go hunt zombies.

  “Don’t worry,” Milly assures the little girl. “We won’t leave you until you’re in good hands.” She catches herself with a nervous laugh. “At least I won’t leave you. Mr. Prose might have his own pressing business.” Milly sends me a questioning glance.

  Oh boy. A vibrant redhead who knows Coleridge and looks after lost orphans. This could mean trouble.

  I shake my head. “I don’t have anything too pressing. I’m headed for Portland. But it’s already waited twenty-nine years for me, so another few hours won’t hurt.” I spot an elevated platform ahead and point to it. “Let’s head up there. Maybe we can spot your friends, Jenny.”

  Even with the better view, we have no luck. The crowds are thinning. The railroad crew is preparing the train for its delivery run into the Territory. My ear catches gunfire not far to the east—no doubt the authorities shooting down the straggling dead they can’t round up. The stragglers, I’ve read, are attracted by the Wall. They come from all across the continent. No one really knows why.

  Milly is studying me.

  “What?”

  “How do you know Coleridge?”

  “No, no,” I say, wagging a finger. “How do you know him?”

  “My dad taught the Romantics at Rutgers before things went under.”

  “Small world,” I say with a chuckle. “My mom still teaches Victorian Lit at a college in Waco. But that’s not how I know Coleridge. My B.A. was in Literature, with a special emphasis in Defamiliarization.”

  “Defamiliarization?”

  “Yep. Coleridge is big in those circles.”

  “You make it sound like you have more than a B.A.”

  I grimace. “I do. But I’d rather not talk about my master’s.”

  “Why not, pretty boy? What could be more bassackwards than a degree in Useless Tomes with a special emphasis in Defecation?”

  My shoulders tense. I peak over the railing. Tucked beside the wall ten feet below us stands Yaverts. He glances up with his wicked, grizzled grin.

  “What do you want?” spits Milly, knuckles white on the side railing.

  Humming tunelessly, the big man strolls to the bottom of the stairs and starts up at a leisurely pace, rolling a cigarette in his paw-like hands. “Shit, Ms. Ruse,” he drawls, leopard eyes as wide and innocent as they’ll go. “What do you think I want? You’ve got my ward. Me and her need to be off for Bentlam by nightfall.”

  Chapter Four

  A Standoff

  Over my dead body.

  That’s what Milly is about to say, somehow I know it. Her cheeks are taut, her teeth bared, her eyes feral slits. I barely know the woman, but this seems a bit much. Sure, Yaverts is a cad, and I’d be the last one to claim it isn’t tempting to irritate him, but for all we know, Jenny really might be his ward. Still, better to err on the side of overprotective.

  Stepping between Milly and the desperado, I touch her arm with one hand, holding her back, and put the other on Jenny’s head. “What’s your authority, Mr. Yaverts?”

  Yaverts grins. His brownish
teeth suddenly strike me as odd coming from the frame of his thick, golden beard. “Always civil, aren’t you, pretty boy? That wildcat of yours would have disemboweled me with her eyes alone if you hadn’t intervened. My authority—besides my magnum,” his eyes flick toward the concealed weapon in his jacket, “—comes from the government of New America and the city-state of Bentlam.” Yaverts reaches into his jacket. My hand goes from Jenny’s sandy hair to the rifle butt over my shoulder. “Whoa, boy,” he chuckles, producing a neatly folded document and handing it up to me.

  Milly snatches for the paper but I’m too quick, knowing she means to rip it up. “Hold on,” I say, grabbing it. “That could just make things worse.”

  Yaverts looks amused. And for good reason. The document is legitimate. It names him, Karl Rickard Yaverts, Plenipotentiary for the Inter-Territorial Transport of High Priority Persons.

  “High Priority Persons?” fumes Milly. She manages to snatch the paper from me. She stares it over before crumpling it in a constricting fist. I’m beginning to think Yaverts’ crack about her being a wildcat may have been too soft. “Transport of High Priority Persons? You? You? Go screw yourself, Mr. Plenipotentiary Jackass! Take a flying—”

  Milly appears about to launch into the saltiest tirade human ear has ever heard, so I squeeze her arm and glance toward Jenny.

  “Oh!” she gasps, caught between instincts. She glares at Yaverts’ license for a second, uncrinkles it, then folds it with assiduous creasings. “I’m going to need more proof than this,” she says with acidic disdain. “Better proof. Human proof.”

  Yaverts’ hand goes back into his jacket. “I don’t have time to humor you, Ms. Ruse.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “So you’re going to shoot us down to stay on schedule?”

  Another brown grin, this one full of something other than amusement. “Don’t think I won’t. And don’t think that me being a plenipotentiary means I can’t. Every lawman in this town will ask me why I capped you two right before he asks if I’d like to grab a drink at Hennesy’s and tell him the short of it.”