They skirt around the hill, headlights off, letting the moon illuminate the narrow road until they plunge into the trees. After a mile in darkness, Abbot gives the go-ahead and the convoy lights up the forest, revealing the sparse remains of a trailer park. Only a few sagging single-wides occupy the lot; most of it is an empty clearing, sickly grass climbing up through the gravel.
The convoy parks around the perimeter of the lot and leaves the headlights on, making a spotlit stage in the center of their criss-crossing beams. The men climb out to stretch and smoke, and Abram longs to collapse on his bedroll and soak his shriveling brain in sleep, but he can’t. He can’t. He walks to the edge of the park. He unzips his fly and pretends to be relieving himself, but his bladder is empty. He stares into the trees and the spaces between them, darkness within darkness. The camp behind him is eerily quiet. No one builds a fire or plays music or even talks above a murmur. Abram can hear insects chirping. A river gurgling somewhere in that darkness.
“Something on your mind, Roberts?”
Abbot moves quietly for such a big man.
“No sir,” Abram says, zipping up theatrically. “Just taking a piss.”
Abbot observes the dry gravel in front of Abram but doesn’t remark on it. “What’s your position, Roberts?”
“Bookkeeping and Guest Supervision, sir.”
“Not bad for one year in the company.”
“I’m a climber, sir.”
Abbot chuckles. “Well, we like that. But what about your family? They still back in Nashville?”
Abram tries not to tense visibly. It’s not quite natural, this conversation between manager and employee alone on the edge of the camp. He weighs his answer carefully. “They’re in a civilian convoy. They’re meeting me in Post.”
Abbot nods. “Better hope they show up soon. Between the Manhattan transfers and these recruitment ads we’re running on the Feed, it’s about to get real crowded over there. And it sounds like you wouldn’t appreciate what we’re doing with the overflow.”
Abram looks at the older man uneasily, but Abbot keeps his eyes on the forest, like he’s waiting for something. Then Abram sees it. Headlights.
“Are we expecting company, sir?”
Abbot’s weathered face shows no surprise. His eyes are dull beneath his bushy eyebrows. A tired old man who’s eaten his fill of the world and is ready for the long nap. “Roberts…how did you become a bookkeeper without being informed of our arrangement with the Fire Church?”
Abram hesitates. “Communications have been a little blurry lately, sir.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Abbot sighs. “Well, nothing much to know here. Just more Orientation bullshit.” He shakes his head, talking more to himself than to Abram. “I figured we’d be putting the experiments on hold till we got settled in Post, but Executive’s all about forward momentum lately. Like it says on the posters, right? ‘Enough is Not Enough.’”
Two vehicles roll into the lot with a snarl of gravel. The first is a beefed-up Land Rover with oversized tires and an urban camouflage paint job. The second is an armored bank truck hauling a horse trailer.
“Here we go,” Abbot sighs. “Another game of Red Rover.”
The bank truck backs its trailer up to one of the convoy’s. A young man with black frame glasses hops out and heads around to where the trailers meet, but Abram can tell by his quiet efficiency that he’s not the one in charge. While he’s busy unlatching the trailer doors, another man emerges from the Land Rover.
“How was the service, Pastor?” Abbot says with a smirk. “Everybody on fire for the Lord tonight?”
The man is around Abram’s age but with the sunken cheeks of someone much older. His shirt is thick and bristly like burlap, and small burn scars blotch his head, face, and hands like some kind of extreme body art. He regards Abbot with a stiff reserve, chin raised, eyes narrow, as if trying not to breathe a foul smell.
“Got an answer for us about those rituals?” Abbot continues, ignoring the man’s disdain. “You’ve got a fun little rave going on out here, I’d hate to have to shut you down.”
“We’re praying about it,” the pastor says. His voice is flat and empty, giving Abbot as little as possible.
Abbot chuckles. “You do understand it’s not a choice, right? Uprooting you would be expensive and Management doesn’t spend unless it has to, but obviously we can’t have you burning down our assets.”
“Obviously,” the pastor says.
“It’s a new era. Law and order. Religion has to adapt to the times.”
“We’re praying about it.”
Abbot stares at the pastor, searching for a crack in his wall, then he shakes his head wearily. “All right, Koresh. I’m trying to help you, but we’ll table that one for now.” He turns to the horse trailer. “So what’ve you got for us here? Anything fresh?”
Abbot disappears into the church’s trailer. The pastor disappears into the convoy’s. Abram glances at the faces around him, searching for some hint of what’s going on here, but they’re all as stony as the pastor’s.
The inspection doesn’t take long. A moment later the two men reconvene in the patch of gravel between the trailers, squinting into the glare of the criss-crossing headlights.
“You got another truck coming or what?” Abbot says, gesturing back to the trailer with a frown.
“That’s all we have for you,” the pastor says.
“This better be a bad joke,” Abbot scoffs. “There’s only ten in there.”
The pastor nods thoughtfully. “We’ve been praying about this too. The gain is worth the sacrifice, but God is telling us to give less.”
Abbot chuckles. “Oh so you want to bargain now? You’ve got God playing sales manager?”
The pastor shrugs. “Not bargaining. Just stating a fact.”
“We’re already giving you three for one! You expect to get our whole load for that sad little crew?”
“Broken bodies can’t do your work. They’re garbage to you.”
“And what are they to you again?”
The pastor doesn’t miss a beat. “God’s creations. Our sick brothers and sisters.”
“Right, right,” Abbot sighs. “Why do I keep forgetting you people are crazy?” He tosses up his hands. “Fuck it. You’re wasting our damn time, but fuck it.” He turns to the troops and shouts, “Full swap!”
The pastor’s assistant unloads the horse trailer: ten men and women bound together on a rope, Dead but intact, eyes clear and hungry, like they died yesterday of natural causes. From the convoy’s trailer comes the opposite end of the spectrum: a grotesque procession of oozing corpses, some rotted to slimy black leather, some still fresh but hopelessly mangled, torn apart by weapons or teeth.
The Axiom Group and the Church of the Holy Fire exchange their cargo. The intact Dead file into one trailer while a far greater number of ruined ones stumble into the other, dragged by collars and chains. Most of the latter show awareness levels on par with the state of their bodies: slack jaws, drooling lips, eyes blank in their sunken sockets. But Abram notices one who stands out. Her eyes dart in a panic as she’s prodded up the ramp. The headlights shine through large, dripping gaps in her naked torso, but her face—
“Shit,” Abram grunts under his breath, a jolt of surprise. He takes an instinctive step forward. “Wait.”
The soldier dragging her stops, and Abram stares at the woman’s face, pale gray with a hint of pink. This pink wasn’t there the last time he saw this woman. It wasn’t there when he flew her across the country, leashed to the floor of the plane while her daughter pried at her heart. It wasn’t there when they shared a prison in Manhattan, or when men like the ones around him dragged her away to be shipped off like freight. He has to be imagining it. It must be a trick of the light. But when the woman finally notices his stare and her eyes latch onto his, it’s impossible not to see the cognition in them. And the recognition.