Multiplex Fandango (27 page)

Which is when I dreamed of Aldo Ray—not me, but my famous namesake. Tall where I was short, handsome where I was average bordering on ugly, blonde where I was black-haired, and white where I was brown. My mother had given me the name of her favorite American actor and hero in the hope that I would grow up to be like him—in the hope that his name would give me a head start on the American Dream. He had starred with James Coburn, John Wayne, Spencer Tracy, Katherine Hepburn and everyone who was anyone. With a name like that, how could I lose? He had been a hero during World War II, serving as a Frogman in the Pacific. With a past like that, how could I not succeed? Yet, as I told my mother, I could fail all too easily because a name does not make the man. She could have called me George Washington, but in the end I would always be reminded that
Washington
was not and had never had been Mexican. And therein lay the truth of it.

I came to my senses with a wetness down my back. It burned, as if someone had scraped the skin away. I wanted to touch there and see if I had been bitten, but I dared not. Any movement that was not that of a
muerto
would doom me to the same fate as the
sicario
and the
Americano
.

So I lurched to my feet again, using the press of bodies to propel me upwards and forward. My head ached, and my eyes felt dull. One of the packets had fallen loose and now hung free from my body, occasionally slapping my side as I stumbled onward.

Soon the steel walls were replaced by the sandy dirt embankments of the
arroyo
that rose up to twice the height of the tallest man. During the monsoon seasons the rain collected and rushed through the natural channel, seeking low ground and washing everything away in its path. Then it was dangerous, but not as dangerous as it was now. Now the water was replaced by the
muertos
, who were no less a natural force
than
the storms that filled this conduit.

I noticed a change in my stride. My legs felt like they were no longer my own. The dull ache that had gripped them a day ago was now gone—to be replaced by a feeling of weightlessness, as if the limbs were no longer there.

Suddenly a gunshot rang out from far ahead. I knew it to be the beginning of the end, and the most dangerous part of the trek. The Border Patrol were taking aim at us, using their high-powered rifles to shoot us like chickens locked in a coop.

My hands lost their feeling as well. It was as if they belonged to someone else.

More gunshots followed the first. Although I could not see what was happening, I had witnessed it before on my first trip. Bullets were ripping through heads. Blood and bone was flying everywhere as marksmen found that sweet spot in the brain of the
muertos
that caused instant—and permanent—death. The fear I had was the fear only a living person could have. I had to hope and pray that I would not fall into the sights of a trigger-happy border guard.

I lost the feeling in my arms around the same time the minefield came into view. More than a hundred small rectangles were placed in the ground facing upwards. I knew that they were called Claymo
res and fired thousands of ball
bearings towards their targets, ripping them apart in an instant.

As the first ranks of
muertos
shuffled forward, night became day as a row of mines was triggered, shredding dead flesh. The surge halted for a moment as the flashes of light blinded the
muertos
. I think it scared them a little, too.

Yet still we pressed ahead.

I could no longer feel my body. It felt like I was walking in a dream where I moved but did not know how. A thought began to form in my brain, but it was hard to concentrate on such things.

I groaned and for the first time realized that I was hungry. The
muerto
in front of me had long ago rotted away, scraps of grey and green skin flapping as it moved. It did not appeal to me, but then I remembered the woman. I knew that she was somewhere forward and to the right of me. I willed my body to move in that direction, and began to jostle and push my way through the pressing mass of dead flesh.

The front ranks continued their forward momentum. This time they were allowed past the next two rows of mines until there were hundreds of
muertos
in the field. Then, as the mines were detonated, a supernova of sound and fury tore them apart, sending them skyward only to rain back down in a shower of body pieces and bone fragments.

I groaned again.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew I still had a son to save. I remembered the far-away words of
mi esposa
when she told me
to do what I had to do
. But I was becoming insatiably hungry. Instinctively, I sought out the woman I knew to be alive. Had the
muertos
known about her, they would be looking as well. But it was my secret, and she was mine.

When she came into view, the realization finally struck me. A burst of rational thought sparked through my dying brain cells as I now understood that I had somehow been bitten, perhaps when I was down, perhaps when I was not looking. A tiny part of me—that part that was still
animado
—screamed for the change to stop. It begged for a chance to save my child, who would most assuredly die without my delivery of the packets taped to my body. It cried out for a second chance to be human.

But the rest of me that had already died ignored my entreaty and cared only for its unholy appetite. No longer was my fuel the need to save my son. No longer was I to be Aldo Ray, the hero of the movies. Now I was a monster—hungry beyond hunger, and eager to sink my teeth into this woman with whom I had shared a conversation before all this had all started.

“Do you really think we can make it?” she had asked.

“Piece of cake,” I had said. “Being dead is the easiest thing. It’s being alive that’s hard.”

We had laughed at the joke, then covered ourselves in pig’s blood and waited for the herd to cross over us. At the time it all seemed like no big deal.

I pushed through the last few of my fellow
muertos
and staggered up beside her. She turned her head minutely, recognizing me out of the corner of her eye. But I was not what she expected. Her gaze widened as she realized what I had become. I could see the terror in her understanding that she would never make it back to her family.

She tried to back away as I leaned towards her. The hunger was overpowering. I was close enough to take away her face, but instead I lightly kissed her cheek.

That surprised us both, and soon she was swept away in the press of bodies. For a brief moment humanity sparked again inside me. The last thing I remembered about myself was who I was—my name, and who my mother had wanted me to be.

Aldo Ray.

And then the hunger took me over until I exploded in a shower of light and heat. And as I rained down over the desert, I finally knew where the Black Sand came from. I knew from what it was born. It was from a hunger far older and far deeper than any of us. And it was growing. And it would soon take over us all. And I became one with the land, and was greeted by fellow
muertos
as they too rained down and joined me in the
arroyo
—a monsoon of the dead, and us flowing nowhere, forever.

***

Story Notes: When Steve Jones asked me to submit to his upcoming zombie anthology I was psyched. Although Steve and I had a legendary tussle over grooming standards, Elvis clothes, and cross-dressing, which came to the forefront at the Bram Stoker Ceremony in Toronto in 2007, I’d never worked with him. For that matter, I hadn’t written a zombie story either. Thus was born this story. Living on the Border, I have a definite perspective about the wall and the events as they transpire down here. Taking a serious issue and bending it with genre was difficult, but by using the synecdoche of Aldo Ray, I think I
pulled it off. This was a finalist for the Bram Stoker Award.

NOW SHOWING ON SCREEN 13

The Smell of Leaves

Burning in Winter

Starring a pile of leaves, a man with a rake, and

the smell of burning flesh

“With all the beer bongs, the parades, the flashing tits and the free beads, it’s easy to forget what Mardi Gras is a
l
l about. I didn’t even know what Shrive Tuesday was until this. Now I’ll pay attention.”

–Chuck Taylor,
High Times Magazine

Filmed on Location

I saw him hassling the other customers of the coffee shop before he ever came to me.
Like an Egyptian beggar, he leaned in with supplicated hands, his clothes frayed, skin coated with a mosaic of dust and grime.
Try as he may, he wasn’t able to persuade the patrons to pause drinking their coffee, or turn away from staring at the gathering throngs of people outside the large window.
The man was background for the larger show, nothing more.

My head was throbbing from yesterday’s Lundi Gras celebration.
Along with thousands of others, I had danced and cheered as Zulu and Rex arrived marking the official start of the Lenten Carnivale.
Like a middle-aged Rave, we gyrated and consumed as if the spirit of Pan himself was within us.
It had been too easy to lose myself in the large crowd.
Too easy to forget my own demons and become an appendage of a greater namelessness.

But now, I was paying the price.
Lightning cascaded and thunder shook
m
y bones as my hangover multiplied the actions of my overworked synapses.

My turn now, the beggar headed towards me.
I stared deep into the chicory blackness of my coffee and willed him to turn away.
I had my own problems and wasn’t feeling very qualified to help others until I had solved my own.
His shadow crept over the white of the tablecloth until the coffee and my two ringless hands were embraced in his darkness.

“Do you know the smell of leaves burning in winter?” he asked.

The aroma of hot chocolate with marshmallows – steam drifting upwards, the heat warming shivering hands.

The crispness of cold air.

The earthy aroma of an old man in black galoshes, faded denim dungarees, green cap tending a pile of leaves with a long rake
—
earth burning.

The stench of death, a temporary stillness of the living, until the white blanket is lifted.

“Yes,” I said.

We both inhaled, the gasp slicing conversation.
Me because of the sight of his haunted, pain-filled blue eyes; him because of my response.

A tear slid through the grime upon his face as he grunted and pulled out the chair across from me.
I glanced around, now the center of attention.
Eyebrows were raised, mouths turned down in disgust.
As soon as eye contact was made, it was averted, as if I had become as
unclean
as this
beggar
.

“Finally,” he whispered.

He kept his head down, but stared longingly at my coffee, the steam laddering up, the aroma of
Louisiana
thick in the haze.
With the back of my hand, I pushed the cup and saucer across the table towards him.

I watched as he grasped the cup in trembling hands, brought it up and inhaled deeply.
His fingernails were black and the creases of his fingers were like roads on a busy map.
The rest of his hand was covered by a half-glove, the original color a mystery.
A jacket, once brown, was unwinding from the sleeves, long strings dangling.
His once-blonde hair was now streaked with earth and nearly black.
His cheekbones were prominent, proof of feastless days and sleepless nights.
And then there were his eyes...eyes that seemed to be forever brimming with tears, held back only by a surface tension of anger and self-revulsion.

My gaze fell back to his shadow upon the table.
Yes, I understood fully the emotions the man felt.
I saw them every time I looked in the mirror, caused by my own misplaced loyalty and ignorant inaction.

“Have you awoken to the screams of a child?”

God please no.

I stared into his eyes and he into mine.

He nodded once.
“I thought so,” he said.
A tear escaped.
He caught it with the back of his hand, the sodden fabric of his glove.

I inhaled to steady myself.
I pinched the inside of my wrist to ensure I was awake.
My eyes fluttered shut as I relived scream after scream of a young boy, his pain and agony rebounding off the smiling faces of Mary and Baby Jesus.
I remember heading towards the Sacristy, mortal anger promising divine justice, but stopped at the door by Old Father Prestor, the firmness of his hands upon my shoulders belying his age.
His eyes were cold.
His lips were a thick crevice in a face full of creases.

Go back to what you were doing
, he said.

This is none of your business
, he said.

I will handle this
, he said.

And I remember turning away from the screams as I obeyed the Church.
My naiveté condemning my soul, my morals bartered for venal favors.

“My name is Matthew,” said the beggar.
“They sent me to find you.
You are to be my confessor.”

Matthew.
A hundred lessons from seminary flashed through my mind.
Mathew cum Levi.
Apostle of Christ.
Martyred for converting the King of the city of
Man-eaters
to the true path.
Matthew.
Ascended into heaven.
The Gospel.

But it was the combination of the words, the formation of the sentence that confused me:
Matthew
...
they
...
confessor.
I was not prepared for this man’s pain.

“Listen, my Son.
Drink my coffee.
I can provide you with food and directions to where you can get a shower and clean clothes.
But as far as being a confessor, I’m out of that business for now.”

He set the coffee down and gripped my hands.

“You haven’t a choice.
It’s you they told me to search for.
They gave me three questions that only one would answer, could answer.
That one, they said, was to be my confessor.”
He squeezed my fingers painfully.
“I must have a confessor to continue.
Please sir.
You must help me.
You
are
to be my confessor.”

I pried his hands away from my own.
“But you’ve only asked me two questions.
How do you know it’s me?”

His eyes crossed and uncrossed.
I winced when he hit himself on the side of the head three times.

“Yes.
Yes.
Of course.
The third question.
You must forgive.
I’ve been searching everywhere since Our Lord’s birthday.
Searching everywhere but finding nothing except hatred and apathy.
Now I have found someone who understands.
I have found you and must ask you the third question.
I am ready to make you mine.
As The Shrove said, ready to be shriven.”
Excitement, fear and determination pulsed through the permanence of the man’s sorrow.
He sat straighter, then asked the third question.
“What is the sound of flesh burning?”

I jerked as a thousand nightmares carried me back to the original event.
I knew the answer
—
had relived that sound a thousand sleepless times.

The snaps as the fatty juices burst through skin.
The pops.
The sound of skin blistering, before it boils to liquid.

“It sounds like popcorn,” I said.

And it all came back in a rush.

***

I was ten.
The day was cold and crisp, but the sun was shining.
Only the edges of the lawn and a few hidden spots beneath the azalea bushes still had snow from yesterday.
This was the South, after all, and snow rarely lasted.

I had been stuck in the house all morning while my mother made me a new suit.
Every year it was the same fight, with me fidgeting and wanting to run with my best friend Big Red, my mom pinning me in place as she adjusted and readjusted the woolen fabric.

Finally, it was to the motorized lull of the sewing machine that I shot out the door and into the yard.
The ground rattled as I ran through a thickness of dead leaves
—
their hues orange and yellow and brown, each crisp in its death.
I called out to my dog to join me.

I called for ten minutes.
Fifteen.
Worried, I ran to the window of my mother’s sewing room, but she hadn’t heard me.
Across the street Mr. Jenks stared at me.
He tended to a burning pile of leaves, only occasionally stirring with a long rake.

I wasn’t allowed to cross the street or to speak with Mr. Jenks, especially since he’d shot Big Red with a .22 rifle last year, claiming my Irish Setter had gotten into his chickens.
As my mother was fond of saying,
Mr. Jenks was bad news all around
.

I walked to the edge of our property, my toes touching the road.
I looked back and could still see mom through the window, busy.

“You seen my dog, Mr. Jenks?
You seen Big Red?”

Instead of answering, he grinned.

“Mr. Jenks, did you hear me?”

He wouldn’t answer, so I looked both ways and took one long step into the road.
I asked him again, and he still ignored me.
It was then that I noticed the peculiar redness in the pile of orange and yellow leaves, the odd contour of the pile.
I let my feet propel me closer until I could hear a noise, like the sound of a steak on a grill when the fat drops onto the coals.
I smelled a sweetness that was at once strange and well-known.
I got close enough to see the last of the red hair spark off the skin of my best friend and to watch the flesh bubble beneath.
The sounds increased as the flames became higher.

Snap.
Pop.
Snap snap.

Yes, just like popcorn.

***

“They call themselves The Shrove.
They came to me in my dreams and told me, explained that I could be shriven, freed from my guilt.
I had to follow the way of the apostles, they said.
I had to be as Jesus, they said.
I had to save the world."

We’d left the café on
Dauphine
and turned left.
He was hard to follow in the crowds already gathering for the parades.
The masked and unmasked bumped and jostled me as I struggled to make my way through the throng.
At
St. Ann
we turned left and moved into the mass of humanity that had taken over
Bourbon Street
.
I grabbed the back of his jacket and allowed him to tug me through.
The noise and the smells were nearly overwhelming and I found myself wishing for the quiet comfort of the small café, but it wasn’t until we hit
Jackson Square
that we finally stopped.
There, in the shade of Andrew Jackson mounted on his stallion and beneath the steeples of the St. Louis Cathedral, his story began to unfold.

“What do they...these Shrove look like?” I asked.

Vendors hawking funnel cakes and ice cream, mimes, a jazz band, and crowds of tourists moved around us.
At the large concrete base of the statue, we were protected, our conversation ignored.

“I’m not sure.
I've never seen them.
It was more like I just knew they were there, a presence in my dreams.
Many of them there in the darkness.”

For not the first time I wondered if he was making all of this up.
But no
—
there were the questions, after all.
And the answers.
Who else could answer the questions?
Who else had lived a life of specific tragedy?
Plus, I honestly had nothing to lose by going along with him.
If in the end I realized he was truly demented, then I suppose I would join him.

“Go on.”

“I don’t know how they found me
—
I was just a high school English teacher, for God’s sake.
It took me a week to make my way down here from
Evanston
.
I was told to leave everything and tell no one, to take a vow of poverty and of celibacy.”

“And you believed it all?”

“They knew everything.
They knew it all.”
So intense was his gaze I could only nod.
“They knew why I cried at night and why I kept my shades drawn.
No way could they have figured it out.”
He leaned in close, his lips an inch from my ear.
“In fact, when it gets dark we can meet them.
I’m to take you with me.
We’re going to save the world.”