World Memorial (2 page)

Park cursed at himself, staring at the taped-up holes and listening to the harsh whistle of the wind outside.

A groan came from the backyard. Park ignored it, fighting to also ignore the pain that rose in his chest every time he heard that groan. Then he heard another groan. A different groan, from outside the front door.

"Well, shit," Park muttered. He pushed himself off the couch and walked over to where his rifle sat balanced against the wall. He picked up the rifle and briefly considered turning it on himself, but he knew it would do no good. Sighing, he stepped over to the door and pushed it open.

Cold, harsh wind bit his face. Snow covered the outside, coating the ground and trees with white. The wind sent white clouds this way and that. Park looked around, pulling his coat closer with one hand as he gripped the rifle with the other. The sky was grey and overcast, growing dark as it crept into evening. He held still, listening for the groan. He wondered if he'd imagined it.

The groan came again, off to his right, somewhere among the trees. Park looked and saw a woman with grey skin and no eyes stumbling in the snow. She moved slowly, jerking with each step. She was partially frozen but still moving. The cold slowed corpses down but didn't stop them.

Park watched her stumble blindly. She groaned into the wind, pawing at the icy trees. Her rotten cheeks flexed as she worked her yellow teeth up and down, as if trying to eat the wind.

He whistled a sharp, piercing note and the woman jerked to attention, whipping her vacant eyes toward him. She groaned and started for his trailer, moving slowly through the packed snow, crunching frozen twigs under her feet.

The cold bit into Park's hands, hurting his thumb. He wished he had gloves again. The old ones had rotted and fell apart over a year ago.

The woman struggled on, groaning and hissing into the wind. She was about halfway to the trailer.

"Let's go, sweet cheeks," said Park, leaning against the door frame and watching. "It's fucking freezing up the ass out here."

Park watched the woman stagger toward him, considering letting her bite him. Considering the small difference between standing in the bitter cold and returning to the slightly-less-cold stink of his trailer. Wondering what the fuck he was waiting for.

He heard the groan from the backyard again. And the clinking chain. He drew himself up and pointed the rifle at the woman.

He was seconds from pulling the trigger when a shot rang out. From a gun other than his own. The corpse stumbled to one side, her head jerking violently. She staggered once, then fell over into the snow. She was still.

"The fuck?" Park muttered, lowering his rifle and looking around.

Snow crunched to his right. Park looked, keeping the rifle ready but not pointed.

"Got her," said a man’s voice.

"You should have had faith enough to not immediately try your weapon," said a woman's voice.

"Now, Sister Elizabeth," said a second man's voice. "Don't be so hasty to judge. Remember how little faith you had when you were first welcomed into our flock."

"Yes, Brother Joel," said the woman, presumably Sister Elizabeth.

The three talkers came into view. There was a burly man with a rifle, his wild hair so thin Park could see wind-burned scalp underneath. A woman in a faded kitten sweater and long denim skirt came after. Third was a young man dressed in an ill-fitting suit. The suit was worn but surprisingly clean, like he cleaned it constantly.

"No harm done, brothers and sisters, no harm done," said the young man in the suit, presumably Brother Joel.

"I suppose," said Sister Elizabeth.

More followed behind the first three, emerging from the snow and trees onto what roughly constituted Park's front yard. They all had worn, simple clothes and lean faces. Park guessed there were about twenty to thirty total. There was an intensity to their gazes, a seriousness of focus that made Park uncomfortable. These were people who wanted something. And they had come to Park's yard to get it.

"That can't be good," said Park under his breath. He cocked the rifle, mostly to get their attention.

Brother Joel stopped. His people followed suit, all of them looking at Park as if seeing him for the first time.

"Not to sound all predictable and shit," said Park, "but I'd like it if you got off my property."

Park knew it wasn't his property. It wasn't his trailer. He'd once been paying rent on both, from what money he could scrape together fixing cars and trucks. Then the world collapsed and rent ceased to be an issue. He’d lived there nearly three years since returning from his disastrous trip to Ashton.

"Hello there," said Brother Joel, smiling big at Park. "It's a wonderful afternoon in the Lord, sir."

"Good to know," said Park, holding the gun in front of him. He kept it pointed down but made sure they saw it.

"We just need a moment of your time," said Brother Joel, stepping forward.

"And there it goes," said Park, not moving.

Brother Joel held out his hands to his side, never losing that big grin. "Surely you can spare a moment? We're doing the Lord's work."

"Doesn't mean I am."

"I think we all do things without realizing who's pulling the chains, sir," said Brother Joel, still smiling. "I offer you the chance to do something you know is for a good cause. And really, sir, it's only a moment."

Park looked at Brother Joel. Then his eyes moved over those behind him. Several had guns. Park considered shooting one. If he was lucky, the others would plug him in the head.

He wasn't feeling lucky. "Fine," he said, sighing and setting the gun against his door frame. The cold air bit at his injured thumb. "This is me pretending to give a shit."

Brother Joel smiled even wider, if that were possible. He walked—strolled, really— through the snow to Park's front stoop. The others followed, stepping farther across the snow. Brother Joel stepped up the shaky metal stairs, stopping one rung below Park.

"Now then, sir," he said, "my name is Joel. Brother Joel, of the Grace Holiness Church Of The Covenant Victory."

"Wow," said Park. "Must be a bitch to fit on the name tags."

Either Brother Joel didn't hear or he ignored him. "The flock and I are out searching."

"Hope it's not for a trailer." Park didn't move but kept his mind very much on the rifle propped next to him.

"Oh no, sir, no," said Brother Joel, chuckling. "We have no interest in your property. We have a wonderful church home a few miles from here. We are out searching for lost lambs. Babes in the woods, if you would, sir. Quite literally. Sister Elizabeth?"

Sister Elizabeth stepped up behind Brother Joel, handing him a small stack of papers. The papers were worn and wrinkled. Park saw pencil marks on them.

"These children, specifically," said Brother Joel. He handed the papers to Park. Park took them, again wishing he had gloves. The cold stung his hands.

The wind picked up. Everyone grew still, looking anxiously around at the trees. Park looked at the chains along his walls. He'd used the thickest he could find, running them from the trailer down to roots or anything sturdy. Back before the snow had come.

"Brother Joel..." said Sister Elizabeth.

"Be still," said Brother Joel. "The Lord wouldn't lead us out here to be caught in a windstorm."

"Hope you're right about that, buddy," said Park, watching the trees. They shook and creaked, their branches swaying back and forth. The storms were bad sometimes. When he'd been in Ashton with Angie Land and her kids, the rains had started. They’d lasted for over a year, soaking the ground and making the walking corpses stink. Then the rains stopped and the winds began. Violent, shaking winds, especially bad now that snow covered everything.

The wind subsided. Everyone looked relieved. Except for Brother Joel. He'd never looked nervous to begin with.

"See?" he said to Sister Elizabeth. "Have faith."

"Yes, Brother Joel," said Sister Elizabeth. She looked embarrassed and stepped back to stand behind another woman with blonde hair and a severe black dress.

Park snorted and looked down at the papers Brother Joel had given him. He thumbed through the first few. They were drawings, sketches in pencil of various children.

"These the kids you were jabbering about earlier?" said Park.

"Indeed they are, sir," said Brother Joel.

"Well, not to tell you your stupid-ass business, but maybe you could have held onto them when you were drawing these pictures."

Brother Joel chuckled. Park wanted to punch him. "We haven't seen these poor lost lambs in the flesh, sir. They came to Sister Elizabeth in a vision. She's a prophet."

"How nice for her." Park thumbed through more sketches. One sent a jolt through him, but he gave no sign.

"Indeed it is, sir," said Brother Joel. "He blessed her and sent her a vision to help us find these lost little ones."

Park looked through the rest as quickly as he could. He knew one of those children. One that was long dead. He wasn't sure why the crazy asshole had a sketch of a dead boy, but Park didn't like it. As he finished looking over the last sketch, Park's eyes glanced over Brother Joel. On the man's otherwise pristine hands, there was a tiny dark smudge along the cuticle of his left thumb. It was dark red, like dried blood.

"Not that I hate to disappoint you," said Park, handing the sketches back, "but I've never seen any of your cartoon kids."

"Ah well," said Brother Joel, taking the sketches back without losing his grin. "It was worth a try. Thank you for your time, good sir. Have a blessed day."

"You know it," said Park, leaning against the door frame as Brother Joel walked back down the metal steps. Park gave the flock his best don't-give-a-shit look. Why did they have a picture of one of Angie Land's kids? A kid Park knew to be dead? He'd seen the kid dying of a corpse bite. You didn't come back from those.

Park's thumb hurt something fierce. He watched the flock follow Brother Joel away from his trailer. He resolved to wait a few more minutes, to make sure the weirdoes were well out of sight before he went back inside.

Park frowned. The kid in the picture, the dead son of Angie Land, looked older. Looked about three years older, like he would look now. And this Sister Elizabeth woman had dreamt of him? It was all too weird.

Park watched the last stragglers head into the trees. He'd had some dreams of his own. Had them every night. Some were of a woman he'd never seen before, a woman with dark black hair and a white dress, telling him to stop trying to kill himself. Every morning he’d tell her to fuck off and go back to trying.

Some dreams were of his daughters, both definitely dead. One torn to shreds by corpses, the other dead at the hands of a man Park had then killed. Other dreams were of Angie and her kids, each looking older, the way they would look now. And there was the boy, Dalton, alive and well. These dreams bothered him. Angie with her living kids, even one he knew to be dead, and his own dead and gone.

The last stragglers vanished from sight. Park didn't trust them. The whole flock gave him the willies, but Brother Joel especially bothered him. What if Dalton were alive? And why were these people looking for him? What would they do with him? Park knew it was crazy. Dreams didn't mean shit.

But he also knew how he had hurt his thumb. The day before, Park had hit on a new method of suicide, one that didn't hinge on whether or not his rifle fired. He'd pulled a cinderblock out from under the rear of his trailer and lugged it inside. He'd laid down on his back, holding the heavy block over his head.

Then he'd let go. The block scraped and jarred his thumb on the way down, and he'd been sure it was headed straight for his forehead.

Then it was behind him. Somehow, the block thudded to the floor, inches from the top of his head. He hadn't seen it change course. He knew sure as shit he hadn't moved. One moment the block was plummeting for his head, then the next it was behind him.

"Ain't that some shit," Park had said, his thumb throbbing as he lay on his floor.

And he stood there in his doorway now, still feeling it. Each pulse reminding him that some weird shit was afoot.

Fine
, he thought, crossing his arms and staring at the snow. Assuming Dalton was alive somehow and Park was having dreams of him, so the fuck what? What the fuck did Park care? His own children were dead. Why should he care if Angie Land lost one of hers? She had a spare.

Park snorted into the biting wind. He knew the death of his kids wasn't Angie's fault—she'd helped find them. It certainly wasn't Dalton's fault. And the other one, Maylee, had been a good friend to his daughter the last few days she'd been alive.

In his dreams, Park recognized the area where Angie Land and her kids were living. It wasn't far. A day's walk, maybe two. If he found them, he could warn them about Brother Joel and the others. If not, maybe he’d find some new gloves along the way.

"Well shit," said Park to no one. “It's not like I have anything to do around here."

* * *

Joel stopped and stood in the snow. He heard his flock stop behind him. He looked up to the sky. It was starting to snow, and it was growing dark.

He turned to face the flock. "Be of good cheer, brothers and sisters. Your blessing will come."

Joel stepped over to Elizabeth. She saw him coming and drew herself up proudly. Joel knew she would have to work on her pride. It was an easy sin to fall into when given the gift of visions. It pained him to see her suffer in her sin, but he knew God would see her through.

"You're sure you saw that man in your visions, Sister?" he asked.

"Plain as you're standing there, Brother Joel," said Elizabeth. "He's connected to the children somehow."

Joel looked among the rest of the group. His gaze landed on Franklin and Bud, two good men, strong in the Lord and good with their guns. It was Bud who'd shot the corpse as they’d approached the trailer. He was maybe a little too quick to shoot, but he was good of heart.

"Brothers Franklin and Bud," he said, smiling at them, "I'm afraid there's a task I must ask of you."