The Return Man: Civilisation’s Gone. He’s Stayed to Bury the Dead. by V. M. Zito Page B

of Valium.
    With a pang of conscience, he realised that he hadn’t reported back to Benjamin.
    Shit.
    Marco looked longingly down the hall towards the bedroom. The doorway beckoned, dark inside, the shades drawn, and he could almost feel the foam mattress conforming to his exhausted body. But he also knew that his friend was probably desperate for his call. The Montana trip had been longer than most others, and by now poor Ben might be thinking the worst–that Marco’s stripped bones were lying somewhere on a nameless mountain.
    A quick check-in, that’s all, Marco decided.
Hello, my guts weren’t eaten, goodbye.
    In the office he booted up the computer and waited for the satellite to locate a signal. Sometimes it took long minutes before the dish on the roof found a signal still reachable from the West, but today he got lucky; by the time he’d settled in his chair, the webcam window had opened and Benjamin’s phone line was ringing on the speaker.
    Marco waited. The phone continued to ring. One minute, then two. He checked the time. Almost nine–he’d never had trouble calling this early before. Benjamin usually picked up fast, or, when he wasn’t home, the calls forwarded to his cell. Ben lived alone in Pittsburgh. His wife Trish–Danielle’s sister–had died during the Resurrection. Badly. Corpses had wrestled Trish from an Evac truck fleeing Scottsdale as Ben watched, screaming, restrained by Evac soldiers. He’d been relocated to Pennsylvania and languished for three years in Survivor Housing–state-subsidised tenements built by the Garrett administration to handle the influx of jobless evacuees. Finally, last spring, Ben had been able to afford his own house on the city outskirts. Bought and paid forwith ‘Corpse Cash’, as Ben called it. Income from twenty-six contracts.
    Actually, Andrew Roark made twenty-seven.
    The phone rang again. Fidgeting, Marco longed for the days before the Resurrection when an unanswered phone didn’t seem sinister. Now you never knew
what
the hell to think.
    Could be Benjamin was just in the shower, or the can.
    Sure. Or maybe there’s been a new outbreak of the Resurrection
, Marco thought, tensing.
And now the other half of America is fucked, too.
    The phone rang another fourteen times. Marco counted.
    Each ring shook his nerves a little harder, and he began to feel his flu symptoms battling back. The sweat, the pressure behind his eyes.
Come on, Ben.
    Then a jarring click, and Benjamin picked up.
    His face popped immediately on screen, close, soft-skinned and red, wearing the black wire-rimmed glasses that made him look like a beatnik poet. Ben was an artist, a painter. He’d shaved his head since Marco saw him last; he ran a hand over his scalp of blond stubble.
    ‘Jesus, Marco,’ he said, shaking his head.
    ‘You had me worried,’ Marco scolded. Absurd, but true. The instant he said it, he realised how easily frazzled he was becoming. He definitely needed the upcoming hiatus.
    Benjamin’s blue eyes widened. ‘Fucking jeez,
you
were worried? Yeah, I get it–for two minutes you weren’t in total control. Try waiting three
weeks
to hear from you, asshole.’
    Both men fell quiet, and Marco sensed that Benjamin felt as shitty as he did.
    ‘Sorry,’ Marco said. ‘That was a bad hello.’
    Benjamin shrugged. ‘It’s okay, man, sorry too. I just didn’t hear from you, that’s all.’ He leaned back, hands behind his head, studying Marco. ‘You lost more weight.’
    ‘Yeah, probably.’
    ‘Not good, man. You have to eat.’
    ‘Can you not sound like my grandmother?’
    Benjamin frowned. ‘I’m serious, Marco. You look like a prisoner of war. Like that guy Rambo pulls out of the water cage in
First Blood, Part II.
’
    Marco laughed. He and Benjamin were the same age, but different in so many regards.
    ‘Whatever you just said makes me glad I never watched movies,’ Marco retorted. ‘But okay, point taken–I promise I’ll eat a few more Power