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Then I headed to Happy Valley.
The intel I’d gathered was interesting. And disturbing.
Happy Valley had been built as an upscale incorporated town with an exclusive population. Lawyers and money had to be involved in setting it up. Only invited persons could move there. There were just under three hundred residents, and an unknown number of “workers.”
When I asked what that meant, the Rovers told me that there was a special arrangement for anyone who wanted to live there. They had to agree to do manual labor—cleaning, farming, basic repairs, trash collection, and so on—in exchange for being able to live inside the walls. These workers also had to turn over their own supplies and needed to earn them back before they were allowed to leave. Or they could leave with no supplies at all and maybe some consequences.
“Those fuckers in there are all about consequences,” said Diver.
“What kind of consequences?” I asked.
Loki said, “You been to the grove?” He nodded in the general direction of the clearing where I’d found the corpses tied to posts.
“You’re saying the people of Happy Valley did that?”
“You see one guy with a big black beard? That was Buckeye. He was one of us. He was sent in as a, you know . . . spy and shit. We wanted the lowdown on the place ‘cause we heard some shady stories. He went in and for a couple of days was able to get word out to us. Wrapped notes around rocks and used a sling shot to send them over the walls. And then, poof—nothing. Messages stopped. We didn’t hear a peep for over two weeks. Then Snail and his crew found him dead in the grove. They’d tied him up and left him to starve to death. That’s fucked up.”
“And you didn’t take him down and bury him?” I asked.
He looked at me like I was from Mars. “Why? He was dead as shit.”
Nice guys. They said Buckeye managed to get a rough guess as to the amount of stores and supplies. There was a lot, but not enough for all those people. Maybe three months’ worth at half rations. And the workers were being fed quarter rations with a promise of thirds if they worked extra hours to earn it. Also, the residents were raising livestock in there. Rats, which were the principle source of protein for the workers, and dogs to feed the residents. There was a big kennel attached to a slaughterhouse and kitchen.
Not exactly sure which part of the story punched the worst buttons in my head—slave labor or dogs as cuisine. It was at least neck and neck. Maybe a little more the dog thing for me.
“What was your game plan once you raided the place?”
“Fuck . . . what else?” said Loki. “Food, supplies, walls, and a prime location. That’s going to be our kingdom, man. Roverville or some shit.” Then he smiled. “Besides, Buckeye said there’s some quality tail in there. Rich bitches who probably never had nothing more than pencil dicks. Most of them white and clean and, like, ready for it.” The son of a bitch actually winked at me. “You’re a tough motherfucker. Big Elroy would welcome you like a brother. Shit, you could have first crack at all that trim—”
Loki wanted to say more, but then he was dead. Diver, who had been nodding at what his friend was saying, never spoke another word.
Baskerville pissed on their corpses. Eloquent and appropriate.
As I walked away it amazed and disappointed me that a shared crisis did not encourage everyone to drop all their old bad habits and rise to stand together. It would be nice to believe that would be the defining characteristic cited in history books written years from now. Not that I believed it, but it would be nice. If there was a future. I really believe humanity could outlive and outlast the plague of the dead. It was groups like the Rovers who made me doubt if the human race had the collective right to survive. Fighting the urge to give in to a cold and unforgiving cynicism was a real bitch, and it felt like every day I lost a little ground. Days like today made me feel like I was sliding down a hill smeared with slippery human sewage.
It was twilight now and when I reached the tree line I could see lights coming from beyond the walls. Pale and flickering for the most part, which suggested firelight; but there were some of the colder and steady blue-white lights consistent with camping lanterns. The illumination wasn’t very evident and probably leaked out from under canopies. It barely reached the upper branches of the surrounding trees, and there were no clouds to reflect it. So, basically not a “come eat me” sign. That was about the first smart thing the residents had done.
Well, semi-smart. There was enough light for me to walk the entire perimeter of the place, staying inside the forest shadows, and get a really good idea of where and how to scale the walls.
Bottom line was this—they probably thought they’d all stayed safe because of the walls and their own brutal treatment of anyone who came knocking at the gate. I doubted anyone was ever allowed to leave. The walls kept out the dead, and the guard towers allowed for just enough vigilance to reinforc
e the distorted feelings of safety, and as the months went by, complacency set in. That brings with it a certain skewed and naïve logic: if it’s worked this long it must mean it’ll keep working. It falls somewhere between arrogance and optimism.
I retreated into the woods to eat, feed Baskerville, and think it through. The dog, free of his armor, shook himself all over and promptly found something disgusting to roll in. Not that I cared. We both stank. There’d been some cans of Vienna sausages and creamed corn in the Rovers’ backpacks. I opened them and split the goodies between us.
While we chowed down I looked at the big dog. “You don’t think Mr. Church is in there at all, do you?”
Being a dog, Baskerville just looked at me. His tail thumped twice.
“Me neither,” I said.
An owl began to hoot softly in the gathering dark, and a million crickets and cicadas sang their love songs. A deep sadness wrapped itself around me and I felt more alone than I had in months. I thought about Junie and the baby and my brother’s family. I thought about Top and Bunny and wondered if they were alive. If not, would they have been alive had I been there? Sure, that’s arrogance talking, but my inner parasites are neither kind nor helpful.
At one point I thought I saw Junie’s pale, lovely face watching me from the shadows, but when I went over it was just the owl sitting on a low branch. My movement chased it off and I shambled back to the desultory little fire I’d started for warmth.
The stars came out and looked coldly down at me. Baskerville came over and pushed himself against me until I wrapped my arms around him and buried my face in his fur. If I wept for a while, he did not seem to care.
***
