The Return Man: Civilisation’s Gone. He’s Stayed to Bury the Dead. (31 page)

With bloodless fingers he clutched himself to the rear rack of the Boar, grimacing. At every skip in the road, every
bump of rubble or fallen branch under the wheels, he felt his bones strike together like flint sparking fire. The gunshot wound on his left shoulder sizzled the worst, as if the bullet had torn a steam vent in his skin. He imagined boiling gas, rupturing outward. Any moment he’d whistle like a teapot.

Propped there, his head a dead weight between his shoulders, he felt old. Heavy and stiff. Tired. He was thirty-eight. In his life he had been shot twice, and whipped, and once impaled through the thigh with a bayonet in North Korea. He had been tortured, burned, had grains of sand placed under his eyelids. His thumb had been bent and broken. Yet never, he mused, had he felt so injured as now.
Sleep
, he rationalised. Sleep was the problem.

He hadn’t slept in sixty hours. He might not sleep for sixty more. He still had a vast task ahead: locate and destroy the Ballard corpse, then collect a DNA specimen before burning the body to cinders–useless to other nations that might come searching. Then transport the prized DNA south into Mexico, across the same unsecure borders exploited by the Horsemen. There, in the unmonitored deserts outside Tijuana, an MSS recovery team would meet him.

The thought of it all exhausted him further. His Droid was gone, lost in the explosion at the train, leaving him no way to contact the team. He would need to seek an alternative solution. But first he needed strength. He closed his eyes and tried to feel his body healing, the wound patching itself solid.
Concentrate.
Globules of dazzling light swam in the darkness, bobbing to the quad’s motion. He reached his mind out into the black and imagined strands of loose thread pinched between his fingertips; he tugged them tight and tied them together.

‘How’s your shoulder?’ the American asked, breaking the trance.

‘Fine,’ Wu barked, annoyed. He was expert at mastering
pain–or, if not mastering it, then hiding it. Henry Marco had no right to ask.
Kheng Wu is in control.

His hands tingled, and he realised he was gripping the metal tow-bars with such fervour that he’d cramped his blood. He eased his grasp.

The air cooled in his nostrils as the road ascended the mountains. For the tenth time he replayed in his mind the scene at the train. The fight against the bearded soldier, and his own close brush with death–saved only at the last possible moment by Marco ramming the Horseman with the quad. The American was quick-thinking, Wu had to admit.

Decisive. Ruthless when it counted.

He scowled. An unwelcome warmth had wormed its way into his head with each remembrance of the morning, shapeless and alien like a tumour. It was…
appreciation
, he realised, repulsed, instantly angry at himself. Yes. There it was, a raw gratitude towards the American for saving his life. He wished to reach inside his skull and pluck it out.

But he couldn’t deny the truth. The American
had
rescued him. And, without that act, Wu would be dead, and China might be left to rot in a world of Resurrection.

Wu exhaled, understanding. Here in this wasteland, he and Marco shared one goal: to survive. And if survival meant working together against a common enemy, then so be it.
MSS is not always so wise
, he thought. In the far-removed, safe offices of Beijing, it was easy to preach nationalist absolutes and ideologies. But out in these grim conditions, perhaps those grudges should be suspended. Temporarily, of course…

His chin drooped, coming to a rest against his chest.
Sleep
, he thought again. He needed to rest, to recover. To heal. The coming hours would demand all he had.

With the mountains cradling him, he at last felt himself drift upwards, away from the physical pain, out of his body. Rising like a weightless kite. Far, far, far.

But away from his body, away from his strength… he was vulnerable.

I’ve never killed anyone
, he remembered the American saying.

It’s hard the first time
, Wu answered, dreaming. The empathy in his voice surprised him. But this Wu was not thirty-eight. This Wu was nineteen, lean and fresh with sinew.

Who was your first?
the American asked.

A man named Tenzin Dawa. A monk in Tibet. I cut his throat, for my homeland.

I see
, the American said.

Yes. Dawa opposed the railway
, the younger Wu explained. The Qinghai-Tibet Railway. That noble endeavour of China Western Development, two decades ago; in Wu’s dream-rich mind he saw lustrous metal spanning mountains, engineered to bring industry and prosperity to undeveloped regions–his own boyhood home included–and yet Tibetans like the holy man Dawa had protested. The rails were iron shackles, they accused, a means of political control, souring Tibet with unwanted Chinese immigrants; Dawa had organised a coalition that grew too strong, too vehement, and MSS had judged that a covert intervention was required.

So you killed him,
the American voice confirmed.
The monk.

Yes.

Do you regret it?

I… I had orders. They were not mine to regret.

But afterwards, alone in your hotel–did you weep?

Yes. Yes, I did.

Wu jolted straight. Pain came rushing back into his flesh, and he embraced it. He sneered, smacked his lips, as if clearing a bad taste. Around him the vapours of his dream vanished, trailing off like the charcoal exhaust from the quad.

That had been long ago. A memory long banished.

Make no mistake, Doctor Marco
, he thought now, fully awake, incensed.

Killing is easy.

I will show you.

For the first mile through Hemet, Marco recognised nothing, a comfortable numbness he knew wouldn’t last. Like the brief second between cutting your hand and seeing the blood spill. It all looked familiar, unnervingly so–a shopping plaza, an Italian restaurant called Bella’s, Rite Aid, a driving school, a Toyota dealership, even mundane details like stoplights and fire hydrants he knew he’d seen before. He could feel his memory slamming its shoulder against a closed door in his mind, determined to break out. He fixed his eyes to the road; the double yellow stripe between lanes had a calming effect, a sort of mindless preoccupation.

But warding off the memories proved hopeless. Too many phantoms here, especially downtown, wrapping their ghostly arms around him. He flinched, remembering. The Baskin-Robbins where he and Danielle had stopped for sundaes one muggy July night. The dinky theatre where they’d seen a second-run showing of her first film,
Next to Nothing
. Yale Street–her father had lived that way, a few miles south. The streets and buildings looked sad and lonely, subdued with litter and grime. Store windows were smashed.

Suddenly an odd shape caught his eye. ‘What the hell?’ he grunted.

On the sidewalk outside a laundromat was an armless corpse, lying on its back in a chunky morass of black blood and bile. It looked dead–really dead. Not moving. Its stomach had been torn open, scooped out, the organs stolen
away. Gristled ribs curled wetly from the torso, and a massive chunk of its neck was missing, too, the brain stem severed. Flesh hung in tatters from the wounds. Bite wounds. Fresh.
Recent.

‘Interesting,’ Wu commented. Marco jumped. He’d practically forgotten the sergeant was along for the ride; the last hour had been quiet, without talk. But now Wu was awake and alert. ‘I didn’t realise they fed on each other.’

‘They don’t. Not that I’ve seen. Must be a new trick.’

The cadaverous face gawked at the sky, its lips like stone, offering no answer.

‘Let’s get going.’ Spooked, Marco accelerated west.

From somewhere a block up he heard another corpse howl, electrifying the hair on his neck. He scanned the sky; the day had turned uncharacteristically grey and overcast, missing the usual stage-light of California sun. But no vultures, thank god.

The yellow stripe stopped at the intersection of San Jacinto Avenue. On the corner a delivery van had crashed into the crosswalk sign.
Brach’s Flowers
, it read on the side.

Marco held his breath and turned right.

‘Doctor! You’re off course.’ Wu’s disembodied voice behind him was like a reprimand from his conscience, boxing his ears.
Off course! Off course!

He ignored Wu. A moment later he felt a crushing grip on his elbow.

‘Route seventy-four went straight,’ Wu growled.

‘I know. I need to make a stop.’

‘There’s a gas station—’

‘Yeah, that, too. But I need to check something first. Something else.’

For half a block more Wu held silent, although his disapproval seemed audible to Marco on its own, louder than the quad’s gunning engine.

‘Where are we going, Doctor?’ Wu finally asked. The question was terse; Marco heard the implied threat.
The answer had better be good.

Fuck you
, Marco replied silently. Enough with Wu’s bullshit.
I’ve got my own problems, and Roger Ballard’s dead cold body can wait.
So could Wu and Osbourne. Jesus Christ, they
owed
him this detour—

A thin, razor-like pain lit up the skin on the back of his neck.

A knife blade.

Wu delicately dug the knife between Marco’s first and second cervical vertebrae, just under his skull. Any harder, and the skin would slice open.
Hello, spinal cord.

Son of a bitch, Wu
, Marco seethed.
You’re bluffing.

‘Wu…’ he warned.

‘I’ll ask you again, Doctor. Where—’

‘Right here,’ Marco said, and braked the quad.

The green lawn of San Jacinto Valley Cemetery sprawled to the north as far as the men could see. The grass was overgrown but verdant, like a wild meadow framed by city streets and sidewalks and a red brick wall running the entire perimeter. From the tall vegetation poked solemn spires and crosses, the tops of granite gravestones. A wide cobble-stoned driveway beckoned them inside; two rows of palm trees flanked the path like giant pallbearers waiting to escort the next coffin to its plot.

Marco felt the knife leave his neck. He glanced back at Wu. The sergeant was squinting into the cemetery, his head cocked, an expression of combined suspicion and curiosity. Beyond the wall a blue butterfly jigged over the long stalks of grass.

At last Wu frowned. He fixed Marco with a gaze sharp enough to cut through any deceit. ‘You have someone here,’ he said. A clarifying statement, not a question.

‘Yes,’ Marco answered simply. Was there reason to say more? He wondered if Wu knew about Danielle, and if so, whether Wu thought he was crazy. He waited.

Wu inhaled and exhaled, his breath congested, the nasal passages likely clotted with blood. ‘And after this,’ he said, still clarifying, ‘Sarsgard. No more interruptions.’

‘Yes.’

Wu processed the information a second longer. ‘Agreed,’ he concluded, and with a stern finger he tapped his wristwatch. ‘Fifteen minutes. Then out.’

‘Agreed,’ Marco nodded. Then paused. ‘Thanks.’

Wu narrowed his eyes.

‘Go,’ he said.

Gratified, Marco edged the quad through the cemetery gate. Farther ahead the driveway disappeared between trees, past ornate mausoleums with Grecian columns and eternally sealed doors. He knew where the road led. Up a rolling hill, past the cemetery office and a serene-looking chapel with a golden-crossed steeple. He drove slowly, eyes sweeping left and right, feeling too cut off from the main gate. Deep in the cemetery, the city outside was almost forgotten. Nothing but willows and overgrown grass and sculpted angels on gravestones, watching him pass with smooth white eyes. Tree branches everywhere were hung with shrouds of vanilla silk; caterpillars had spun their nests, whitening the trees, giving the grove an almost wintry feel, despite the heat.

Where the road turned and began to loop back on itself, Marco stopped the quad. Off to the right a flagstone path met the road, leading into the overgrowth. The stone steps vanished a few yards deep, swallowed by unchecked grass and ivy vines.

‘Here,’ he said, more to himself than Wu.

He killed the engine. His ears rang in the sudden quiet. The odour of gasoline and oil wafted through a light breeze,
and he heard Wu shift on the seat behind him. He studied the path leading out of sight into the vegetation. Nothing moved.

Wait
–there, by a pink marble obelisk, the high grass bobbed as if disrupted by something passing through at ground level, unseen.

A hider
, he thought, pulling the Glock.

He watched a few seconds more. The stalks grew still.

No, not a hiding corpse. Just the breeze.

‘Time is ticking, Doctor,’ Wu said. With a grunt and a wince, he slipped from the quad, then cringed. His beaten muscles had stiffened during the drive, Marco figured, and now the crusted bullet wound was cracking open again as he stretched his body.

Wu’s nostrils flared as he holstered his knife. ‘Lead the way,’ he said.

‘Hang on.’ Feeling suddenly short of breath, as if under a great exertion, Marco grabbed the AK-47 from the gun rack and rummaged through the Horseman’s pack. He palmed three full clips and slipped them into his back pocket. ‘I know it’s a cemetery, but some of these dead folks might be the “above-ground, walking-around” variety.’

With Wu trailing, Marco made his way up the path. The grass was waist high, soft and thick under his boots, and he saw no signs of corpses–no crushed stalks, no trampled vines alerting him that another pair of feet had trod this way recently. Spider webs, too, barred the path like miniature gates. He broke through them resolutely, telling himself this meant nothing–that of course Danielle could still be ahead.

Couldn’t she? Yes, he told himself, if she’d walked in months ago and never walked out, and the grass had grown over her tracks and the spiders sealed her in.

His heart beat impossibly hard, too large for his body. A
giant red, pounding muscle, swollen so big it would break his ribs apart…