Dead Man's Walk Page 2

  A sudden lump struggles down his throat, and he turns his head away from her. To the other crowds, he was a curiosity. Maybe their paths had crossed on the way to work, but to them, he was just another face in a sea of thousands. To this small group, he is a friend, a colleague, a lover. They have shared laughs, arguments, lunches, and more. Their faces tell him his fate. They are never going to see him again.

  And for this, they are glad.

  The dead man’s legs are suddenly shaky as they pass the last alleyway and are about to turn down the main street. Now he feels the strain of every step on his underused muscles. Every step leading him closer to death. He stumbles and, unable to use his hands to balance himself, he falls forward. Managing to turn slightly as he collapses, he avoids smashing his face into the brick road. Landing instead with all his weight on his left shoulder. His head thumps hard against the ground with a solid thwack. He is gripped with pain.

  Every muscle in his body tenses and stretches. In front of his friends, he groans with pain through clenched teeth. He arches his back, like a fish out of water, convulsing for a breath. It lasts only a few moments, and he lies on his side in the road, gulping dusty air through the mask. The smells of dirt and horse manure overpower the leather smell of his mask. He feels a hand on his shoulder and turns his head to look at the plastic eyes of the man with the flames.

  “I . . . I can’t . . .”

  “You can. It was just a small one.”

  “I . . . Can we just go out the back gate?”

  “You know the custom,” the tall man says.

  Despite the mask, the filtered, artificial sound of the voice, the dead man finally feels warmth in the voice of his killer. Sympathy perhaps. It may just be his imagination.

  After a few moments of silence, “Are you ready to stand?”

  “Yes,” the dead man says more strongly than he feels. “Thank you.”

  The man is helped to his feet. His mask has slipped again as he struggled on the ground, and the tall man adjusts it gently.

  “Why do you thank me?” the tall man asks.

  “Because, I realize this task has fallen to you. It is clear you don’t take pleasure in it.”

  He says nothing for a moment, his blank eyes revealing nothing.

  “No one does,” he says. “It is simply what must be done.”

  They turn left down the town’s main street. A hundred yards behind them is the gate that leads out to the south. For a brief moment, the dead man considers running for it. But then what? Even if he made it that far, how does he get over the wall? They won’t simply open the gate for him. Is there anywhere he could go they wouldn’t find him. How long could he run before his legs would fail him?

  The urge to run is strong. The lessons of his youth are stronger. No one goes outside the wall. Except those that patrol for the monsters that rule the land out there. Outside the wall is nothing but death. His own death awaits him out there. Why rush it?

  The muscle spasms were already starting. If he delayed the march by attempting to escape, he would end up being dragged through town like an animal. No, he must walk bravely through town like the others that have marched before him. He must die with what little dignity he can manage. He will be outside the walls soon enough. The tall man has noticed his hesitation, and he prods him to continue walking.

  To their right and left now are more manufacturing buildings. He knows on the other side of the buildings to his right, is the large stone quarry he had been day dreaming of. Why had he been dreaming of Janet instead of Kristen? Why is it always the memories of things not done that bother the most?

  Workers who didn’t bother to come outside stand in windows, watching him. The sidewalks here are blessedly empty though as most the workers have already seen the dead man and returned to work. Sweat begins beading on the dead man’s face as they continue the march, soaking into the leather, making it stick to him. The sun is high in the sky, and he can feel it beating down. The air is still cool, yet his skin is warm. Dark clouds are gathering to the east, threatening the city with an early spring storm. The man wants to scratch his face. He wants to claw the mask away. He tries and fails to rub his face with his shoulder.

  Ahead, the woman continues leading them into the center of town. The main street is empty of the usual traffic of carts. Word has already spread about the dead man’s march and the drivers have all pulled off to the side. Like mile markers, they sit silent and still. Counting down the distance he walks to his death. After another mile, the manufacturing district ends and the business district begins. This is where the larger crowds wait to watch the march of the dead man.

  Chapter Four

  ~

  One moment, the street and the sidewalks are empty. The next, people are six, seven deep. A mere twenty feet away from the procession. From the edge of the street to the front of the buildings, people crowd each other to see the dead man’s march.

  Women are dressed in skirts of varying colors that come just above their ankles. They wear white and black buttoned shirts. Some carry small umbrellas, shielding themselves from the sun or prepared for the rain. Men wear cotton pants of gray or dull blue. They wear vests over white shirts. Brass buttons on the vests are gleaming in the noon day sun. Men and women all wear masks of varying design.

  The dead man hesitates again for half a step. A muscle under his right eye has begun to twitch. It beats rapidly, painfully. He has been on the other side of these crowds before. Standing vigil for the march of the dead. Never before has he noticed just how large the crowd is. Standing in a crowd, you are aware of those around you. Being on the other side. Being the object of attention. You can finally see just how many people this city really holds.

  They reach the first group of people. The pace is still steady, the dead man still able to walk, though his muscles protest more and more with every step. The twitching under his eye is spreading to his cheek. All he wants to do is itch it. Scratch until he can feel some relief. He also wants to hold his head high, pretend to be ignorant of the crowds. Instead he looks at the crowd. Trying to pick out individual faces. Neighbors or former lovers.

  But the masked faces that watch him are strangers all. Has the city always been this foreign to him? Those masked faces were people he had no doubt walked beside, eaten next to, or even lived next to. He doesn’t know any of them. He is just a dead man now. All alone, even though he is surrounded by 50,000 people.

  The crowd makes no noise. There is no one jeering him as he had feared would happen. There is also no one shouting words of encouragement. Some have misty eyes he can see above their masks. Not tears. They don’t know him well enough for that. Other faces are blank. They feel nothing. Or they won’t allow themselves to show anything.

  Most wear masks that won’t let him determine their emotions. It angers him that he can’t see most the faces. He wants to judge them for how they are judging him. He wants them to see him walk. Wants them to see they are making a mistake. Don’t they see there is nothing wrong with him? Don’t they have any sympathy for him? Or is the fear that they will be next, too much?

  He rolls his shoulders, shakes out his arms, getting his hands as comfortable as they can be when tied behind him. He concentrates on the bobbing ponytail of the woman in front of him. Watches it sway as she moves, scanning her head back and forth as though she expects danger. As though someone would be dumb enough to rush out to be nearer to him.

  The crowd blends into a blur of grays, blues and white. They are nothing more than shrubbery as he walks the miles down the city’s main street. The dead man hears nothing and can see nothing but the ponytail. The only smells, fresh leather mingled with salty sweat.

  Fifteen minutes of watching the tick tock of the woman’s ponytail and they finally reach the center of town where the north and south main street intersects with the main east and west. Straight ahead, the crowd has spilled into the street, blocking them. It has been a few months since the last walk, but people never forge
t the route the marches will take. Across the intersection is the residential area of the city. The custom is dangerous enough, walking directly down the main street. But, walking past the residential district would be reckless.

  They take a left. Behind them, are the sounds of people returning to their lives. Just like that, the show is over. There is no beating of drums. No speeches for the masses. His fate is enough of a warning. This is what they all face if they leave the safety of the city. If they stop taking the vaccine.

  The dead man wants to shout in frustration. He is no different than them. Never leaving the city, always taking his morning vaccine. And yet . . . yet, he is already dead. They are no different, they just don’t see it.

  The people will return to work, their shopping, or whatever else their day calls for. The man wonders if they will talk about him. Will they say he was brave, going to death with his head held high? Will they compare him to the others who have walked before him? Or, will they curse him for interrupting their routine. Being the cause of them having to wear the masks. He knows they will wear the masks for a few days, some for a week. Everyone will visit the pharmacies to be tested as mandated. Lists will be checked for compliance. Then, the Commission will declare the city safe again. Just in time for spring planting.

  A wonderful omen. The death of winter is purged so that spring can begin life anew.

  A few more stragglers remain on this road, standing at the base of a low arching bridge. The bridge spans a hundred-foot-wide river that cuts through the city. A tributary of a greater river, it is the lifeblood of the city. Where it comes through the wall on the northern end, it is siphoned off for the residences. Then, it is further drained for use amongst the crops that grow on the western side of the city. It will be pilfered further by the manufacturing section before leaving the city, a trickle of what it was when it entered.

  The bridge is stone, with a two-foot-high edge on both sides. During spring and summer, it is packed with traffic of the farmers and their wagons as they move back and forth to work in the fields beyond. Now, it is empty as the last of the watchers are behind the group. The dead man takes in a huge lungful of air. Relaxing. The worst is behind him. The crowds are gone. Now he can—

  A racking cough hits his chest. He again tries to bring his hands up to cover his mouth, and he loses his balance slightly. His lungs suddenly feel like they are taking on water. Choking, his cough is wet and dizzying. He stumbles again, towards the edge of the bridge. Coughing and stumbling, he is leaning forward, nearly falling as he tries to regain his balance.

  “Stop him!”

  Before he can reach the edge of the bridge, and fall over the side or cough into the water, hands grab his forearms. The dead man remains leaning, unable to hold his own weight. Racking coughs threaten to make him blackout. Something comes up from his chest, something liquid. It tastes of copper. Trying to swallow, another cough forces the liquid out. It seeps into the leather covering his mouth. He can feel some running down his chin.

  The man’s coughing stops. His lungs feel fine. Like nothing happened. The person holding his arms helps him regain his balance and moves him away from the edge. Thunder rumbles in the distance. The tall man looks up at the sky just as a dark cloud moves in front of the sun. The mask doesn’t change its expression, but the tall man moves more quickly. Turning to his squad members he says, “We’ve got about an hour or two before the rains come. Time to get moving.”

  On the other side of the bridge stand another group of four people. They are dressed in the uniform of the Guardians, and they stand beside an uncovered schooner wagon. Each of the four have a pack at their feet. Each with a rifle leaned against the pack. The dead man flinches at the sight of the rifles, and the twitching of his cheek resumes. Surely they aren’t going to kill him right here? Inside the walls. He tries to remember if he ever heard shots after someone finished their walk.

  His four executioners each grab a pack, tossing them into the back, up near the driver’s seat. They also each grab a rifle. The two bug-eyed men climb into the driver’s bench. One grabs reins, setting his rifle next to him in the seat. The other sets his rifle over his knees. Watching them, the dead man realizes that they are not twins after all. In fact, they aren’t even the same color. One is black and the other is white. They are the same build, same height, and wear the same mask, but they clearly are not twins. He chuckles out loud at himself. His mistake is suddenly very amusing to him.

  The four new guards share concerned looks with the others. It only causes the dead man to laugh harder. They think he is crazy. He knows he must look it. A man with hands bound behind his back, wearing a simple thin robe with sweat stains on his back, and a blood stained leather hood over his head, laughing his head off.

  Still laughing, he is hoisted into the back of the wagon. Set on his side facing out the back, the city is now tilted sideways. Horses jerk the wagon forward, and he watches the city as it bounces and threatens to fall from the crooked sky. The other four Guardians stand in the middle of the street, watching them drive off. For a moment he thinks he should call out to them, to let them know he isn’t crazy. But, no one will believe the word of a dead man.

  Chapter Five

  ~

  Thunder rumbles again, but light reappears as the sun fights back for control of the sky. The dead man stares out at the fields now stretching behind them. The northwest corner of the city is reserved for crops, but the ground is barren right now. The dirt is still partly frozen, and small clusters of white snow, nestled against the tiny rolling mounds of the crop rows, still hold out against spring. The rain today will take care of those. A warm rain to cleanse the streets and soften the dirt for planting.

  He always enjoyed spring time. Though not a farmer, he liked to walk along this road, watching them at work. Over the summer months, watching as the crops grew. Transforming a bleak, empty landscape, into one of color and of life. There will be no spring this year. At least not for him.

  The wagon begins to slow. The squeaking of metal hinges and the creaking of wood tells him they have reached the west gate. He attempts to turn over to the front and see where they are and he ends up on his back, staring at the sky. The wagon lurches forward again and suddenly looming over his head, is the wall that surrounds the city.

  The wall.

  The source of fear and security for everyone in the city. In the children homes, they are told of what lurks on the other side. Cannibals and disease. Some land so poisoned with radiation, nothing will grow. The wall is a source of nightmares. Fear that someday, something will try to come over it, into the city. And fear that someday you will be thrown outside it. Yet, the wall also allows them to survive in what is left of the world. Without it, they could not live.

  In a second, they are outside the wall and he can see the gate slowly closing behind them. Something grips his throat. Now that he is here, he doesn’t want to go quietly. He had walked through the city thinking it was brave, but now he realizes it was foolish. He has only walked himself to his death.

  Making a quick decision, he tries to roll off the back of the cart. He is going to run back inside the closing gates. Nothing lives outside the walls. Once he is back inside, he can plead his case. Convince them to give him more time.

  His escape doesn’t happen as he once again finds that his arms and legs are stuck in place. Struggling, he pulls harder, straining at the rope that holds him, willing to fall on his face. He has to get back inside the wall. The wall is safety. They shouldn’t be out here. It isn’t allowed, and it isn’t safe.

  He cannot get closer to the edge of the wagon. Shouting in frustration, he rolls the other way. Seated on the packs are the woman and man with the flame tattoos. They watch the horizon, making no effort to restrain him. In the very middle of the cart is an iron ring. A rope has been looped through it and tied to his wrists and ankles. He can move further into the wagon, but not out. During his delirium, he never even noticed he had been hogtied. Like a pig to
slaughter.

  “Let me . . . go,” he says.

  He receives no response.

  “Listen. Please,” he says, gasping and shifting his body. Settling into a more comfortable position, he stares at the mask of his lead executioner. He takes a calming breath, noting to himself that he doesn’t cough. If they won’t take him back inside, perhaps they will let him go out here instead.

  “Just let me escape. No one would ever know. I’ll stay away . . . I promise.”

  No response.

  “I’m not sick. Okay, okay. Yes, I coughed up some blood back there and I had some muscle spasms when we first started, but . . . but, those were just nerves. Just the effects of three days lying in bed. Don’t I look fine too you? I am thinking straight. There is nothing wrong with me. This has all been a big mistake. Let me take the test again.”

  No response. The two driving the wagon don’t turn around; they just keep slowly scanning the horizon. The silence is perhaps the worst thing the man has experienced all day. Won’t they at least argue with him?

  Finally, the tall man speaks.

  “It’s different once you’re outside the wall, isn’t it?”

  The tall man pauses, looking out into the empty fields around them. The dead man doesn’t think this is a question for him. Just the other man thinking out loud. After a few seconds, the man with the flame tattoos speaks again.

  “As children, we are told the stories of the things that lurk outside the walls. We are taught the history. The great fall of humankind. The rise of the maneaters. The consumers of flesh. We are taught about the death that awaits if we leave the wall. If we stop taking our vaccine. But still, somewhere, deep down, haven’t you always wanted to see it for yourself?”