CHAPTER ONE: THE NEWCOMER
The sun warmed his skin while cicadas droned in the dry air and birds called out in the distance. His eyes were still closed; he had yet to wake up. The dirt he lay on was as hard as plastic, and its lack of comfort stirred the man in his sleep.
Something prodded the man. His eyes split open to peer around. A blocky woman stood over him, dressed in a cap and a dress. She wore cracked boots and gloves stained brown from years of digging through soil.
"Are you okay mister?" asked the blocky woman.
"What—" the man began. He sat up, rubbing his head. It felt rigid, and every bit as square as the woman standing next to him.
"Well, are you okay? You need water?"
The man looked around, surveying his surroundings. Segmented olive green stalks rose up all around the man and the blocky woman, and ended in golden cones. The dirt they grew from was reddish brown, but not easily broken. Everything was blocky. Blocky.
"Where the hell—" the man started. He paused to look down at his hands. They too were square. "Where the hell am I?"
"Jeez mister, you must have bumped your noggin. Can you stand up?" She offered him a hand, which he accepted after a hesitant moment of staring at it. She helped him to his feet. "My name's Merriweather," she told him. "Do you have a name?"
"Uh," he stopped and looked around. By standing up he was given a wider view of the landscape. It was expansive, covered with identical cornstalks for miles. The reddish dirt stretched flatly for as far as he could see.
Merriweather was convinced the man must have been baking outside for hours. He wasn't speaking very clearly at all, and seemed to be totally thrown off by his surroundings. He could have suffered a heat stroke out here and collapsed in her family's cornfield.
"Let's get you inside," she said. "You need some water." She grabbed his hand and lead him through the maze of stalks until they came to a narrow pathway leading through the vegetation. They walked down the path and eventually emerged before a green and white ranch house, with tall columns reaching up from the concrete porch to support an overhung roof. Potted ferns were arranged at the corners of the porch, while spotless white benches sat between them.
"Pa!" shouted Merriweather. "Pa, I need your help!"
She led the confused man up onto the porch and sat him down on a bench, then disappeared into the house. The man turned in his seat and looked around. Now that he was out of the cornfield, the landscape unfolded before him. Miles and miles away were red and brown mesas, which looked to be made of clay. Only the man knew they weren't—everything in this land was composed of studded building blocks. The cornstalks previously surrounding him were really stacks of cylinders topped by a cone. The columns on the porch were two-by-two rounds piled up to the ceiling. The ferns next to him were green, inverted ramps stretching up and out of the pots they were planted in.
The front door of the house snapped open, and a man stepped out with Merriweather following. "Hi there, I'm Grant," said the man. He offered the confused porch-sitter a glass of water, which he accepted. The glass was a clear round cylinder, but nevertheless it replenished the confused man the moment he brought it to his lips. Its effects were immediate—the confused wanderer gained mental clarity and was cooled off.
"Do you have a name?" Grant asked.
The confused man nodded. "Lou."
"Well Lou, nice to meet you. Any idea what you were doing out in my cornfield?"
Lou gave it some thought. He couldn't remember how he got in the field, but he knew he didn't belong in this land. He belonged in a world where people were made of flesh, and each cornstalk was unique, and the dirt was soft, not hard.
"No," Lou finally admitted. "Honestly, I don't know."
"Any idea where you came from?"
"Uh, Manhattan."
"Manhattan," Grant repeated. "Never heard of Manhattan." He turned back to face Merriweather. "Have you ever heard of Manhattan, dear?"
"No, Pa. Must be a core city."
"Right," he nodded. "Must be a core city. You come from the core cities, Lou?"
Lou was clueless, but he answered the question nonetheless. "Yes." But then he realized going with the flow of the conversation just because he was confused would get him nowhere. He waved his answer out of the air. "No, no. I mean, no. I don't come from a core city. I don't come from this place at all. Why is everything blocky? Where am I?"
"You're on my farm, stranger. On the edge of the Chrome Empire. That ring a bell?"
"No . . ."
Grant looked back at his daughter, then back to Lou. "You're in Blockland, Lou. That ring a bell? Don't think I can get any broader."
Blockland was certainly an apt name. Lou decided he would get nowhere further with his hosts, and gave in. "Yeah, Blockland. I know the name. It's coming back to me."
"Swell, swell. Do you have a home, Lou?"
"I don't know."
"You should stay the night," said Merriweather. Grant gave her a disapproving look, trying to hide it from Lou, but she continued to talk. "Just until you get your mind back. That would be fine, right Pa?"
Grant slowly turned back to Lou and nodded. "Sure. Would you like to stay, Lou?"
He didn't have much of a choice. Blockland was totally foreign to him. "Yeah. Thanks," he said.
"Well there it is. We've got out first guest in years, Merriweather. Why don't you be a dear and go get started on dinner, love."
"Yes, Pa."
Merriweather went back into the house, leaving Grant and Lou alone on the porch. "Looks like night's almost here," Grant observed. Lou turned in his seat and saw the sun, a corona flare, was setting behind a mesa. There was no moon in the sky to complement it. The night sky would be a deep, barren indigo. "Let's head inside."
Grant led Lou into the house. The interior, much like the environment outside, was made entirely from connectable bricks. Everything from the padded wicker chair—which really just looked like a brown and white couch—to the light fixtures were built out of the studded pieces that seemed to compose the entire world.
"I'll show you around the house," said Grant. "After that Merriweather should be done with our dinner, then we'll go off to bed."
Lou followed Grant through the living room, which was furnished with the aforementioned wicker chair, a dark brown coffee table, and a television against the wall. The TV looked out of place in this ranch house surrounded by cornfields, but Lou didn't mind. Life must be very dull out here, and a TV offered a great escape from the beating sun and hard dirt.
"This is the second floor," Grant said as they approached a set of stairs. "Merriweather and I sleep up there. Ain't nothing for you to see though, but if you need me, that's where I'll be for the night."
"I won't be sleeping up there?"
"No sir, you'll be in the basement. Follow me."
They went around the stairs and found another set directly underneath them, this time leading down through the floor. Grant walked into the basement first, and toggled a light switch when he hit the bottom. The basement was illuminated by a round brick attached to the ceiling, and revealed the contents of the cellar—an empty wine rack, a pair of crates, and a dusty old bed.
"Ain't the best lodging, but it's nice and dark down here. You shouldn't have much trouble getting off to sleep."
Lou walked over to the bed and placed a hand on it. The comforter was caked in a layer of dust, but he would be lying if he said it wasn't soft. Beggars can't be choosers, he figured. A bed was a bed, and this one would work for the night.
"Pa! Lou! Dinner's ready!" they heard Merriweather yell from upstairs. The pair walked up the stairs and stepped onto the ground floor. Lou could see through the windows how dark it had gotten outside. The land surrounding the house was lit up by a couple lanterns, but the cornfields and mesas beyond were smothered by total darkness. He would hate to be stuck outside after dusk, it must be impossible for a person to find their way home.
"What did you fix, love?" Grant asked as they stepped into the kitchen. It doubled as a dining room, with a short table surrounded by three chairs pressed up against a wall.
"Corn," she replied, and set down three plates in front of the chairs. Each plate had a yellow cylinder on it, with a little pad of butter sitting next to it in the form of a flat one-by-one round brick.
Grant and Merriweather took their seats, and Lou followed their example. The meal only lasted a few seconds, and when it was finished, Merriweather took their plates to the sink.
"It's dark, dear." Grant peered out a window. "Why don't you wait until morning to wash the dishes. We should go to bed."
"If you say so, Pa."
Merriweather stepped away from the sink and hurried upstairs. Grant patted Lou on the shoulder. "You have a good rest, stranger. Maybe in the morning you'll have more of your mind back."
Grant left the kitchen and went upstairs, leaving Lou alone. He turned the kitchen light off and went down to the basement, ready to get some rest. The bed was still dusty, which was disheartening to Lou, but he sucked it up and grabbed the comforter. He peeled the thick blanket back and shook it in the air, sending the dust flying in all directions. Lou was forced to cover his mouth to avoid the newly-created dust storm.
After climbing into bed with the comforter over him, Lou drifted off to sleep.
• • •
He awoke a few hours later to the sound of banging on the wall above. Lou figured it must be morning, and his hosts were getting started with their day. He rolled out of bed and turned the light on, then went upstairs.
He was wrong. It was still night.
The banging on the wall had stopped, however, so now he stood in complete silence and darkness by the stairs. He ventured out of the stairwell and stepped into the living room, where the windows shifted and jumped with movement outside. Lou crept closer to the windows, unable to discern what the source of the movement from beyond was. Visibility was so bad, the dark indigo bathing the land outside might as well have been pitch black.
And then he saw them.
There were people outside, but they did not move with the same purpose and intelligence of people. They shambled about, pausing only to decide which direction they should shamble to next. Clothing covered their bodies, giving them a shred of civilized credibility, but their faces erased all possibility of these people being rational creatures. The faces, oh, the faces. They were twisted traces of once-thinking citizens, now horribly disfigured into two dead eyes and a gaping mouth. They had hands stained red and brown by blood.
They were terrifying.
Lou hit the deck in fear as the pounding on the wall commenced. He realized: The creatures outside, the disfigured and bloody versions of the blocky people who seemed to inhabit this land, they were the source of the wall pounding. They were mindlessly beating the wall.
Lou began a tense crawl back to the stairwell, where he climbed the stairs to the second floor. This story was a hallway ending in a window, though Lou allowed himself to stand here since none of the creatures outside would be able to see him.
There were three doors branching off from the hallway—two pink doors and one brown door. He figured one of the pink doors must belong to Merriweather, and the brown door must belong to Grant. He couldn't figure out what the other pink door was for, but he didn't give it much thought. He walked over to Grant's door and slowly, carefully, opened it up.
"Grant?" he said in hushed urgency. "Grant? Are you awake?"
No response.
Lou opened the door wider and spotted a lump in Grant's bed. He tiptoed into the room and pulled the blanket back. Grant lay there, stirring from his sudden lack of cover.
"What? Lou?" he said. "What is it?"
"Grant. There are people outside."
"People?" he sat up, ready to get out of bed. "Is it morning?"
"No, night."
"Oh," Grant sighed. "No, those aren't people. They're zombies."
"Zombies?" Lou's breathing quickened. "Shit, Grant, we have to get out of here."
"They're nothing to worry about. Don't let them see you and they won't have a reason to come inside." Grant fell back into his pillow. "Why don't you go back to bed. Be careful going downstairs."
"Grant—"
He waved Lou away. "Get some sleep."
Lou nodded and walked out of the room, closing the door. He went down to the basement and tried to sleep with the lights on.
• • •
The morning came accompanied by the drone of the cicadas. Lou had slept in staggered bouts, never getting more than twenty minutes of sleep at a time. It was only when Grant came walking down the steps that he realized it was morning.
"Kind morn, Lou. Sleep well?"
"Yes," he lied.
"Good, you'll need your rest for what comes next."
Lou sat up. "What do you mean?"
"Come along, you'll see." Grant brought Lou outside and popped open a crate next to the house. He handed him a sword. "We've got a zombie who didn't return to the caves when the sun came up."
"They're supposed to do that?"
"Yeah, zombies can't stand the sun. Didn't you know that?"
"No."
"Wow," Grant marveled. "You really aren't from here, are you?"
"No. Manhattan never gets zombies."
"Then this'll be your first chance to see one up close. This'll be your initiation." Grant produced a shotgun, seemingly from nowhere, and pumped it. "Anyway, come along."
They went around to the other side of the house, where a compact wooden shed sat like a monolith. It had no windows, just a single door with a crescent carved into it. It was an outhouse.
"I came out this morning to take a leak," explained Grant. "I heard it in there clawing at the wall, and luckily I hadn't opened the door yet."
"We're going to kill it?"
"That's right. Why don't you stand over there," he pointed to the side of the outhouse. "And open the door for me. Then I'll shoot it."
Lou stepped over to the side wall of the outhouse and reached over to the door. "You're sure this is safe?"
"Of course. Done it plenty of times before."
"Okay then . . . are you ready?"
"Ready."
Lou opened up the door and a zombie came stumbling out. It began to ooze blood as the sunlight hit its skin. Grant put the monster out of its misery with a single shotgun blast.
"That's all there is to it. Why don't you go inside and see if my daughter's done with breakfast, I'll be in shortly."
Grant pulled the zombie's corpse, which was laying on its back with its limbs splayed out like a turtle, away from the outhouse and stepped inside. He closed the door to urinate.
Lou put the sword away and went back into the house. Merriweather was in the kitchen, preparing eggs.
"Is the zombie dead?" she called to him.
"Yeah. Your dad shot it."
She came walking out with a plate and handed it to Lou. "My Pa is a brave man. He's getting older though, I've had to start helping him with the zombies that don't leave when morning comes. Thank you for helping him, Lou." She kissed him on the cheek. It was a nice gesture, but Lou felt no attraction to blocky people like Merriweather, no matter how sweet of a girl she was.
Grant stepped through the front door. "Breakfast ready yet, love?"
"Yes Pa. Your plate is on the table."
"Why don't you bring it to me." He took a seat in the wicker chair next to Lou. "Thanks for the help this morning, friend."
"Don't mention it."
"Have you remembered where you came from yet? The night of sleep help at all?"
"Oh. No, it didn't."
"That's a shame. Any idea what you'll do now? You're welcome to stay with us another night if you'd like."
Lou put his plate on the coffee table. "No, no. I'll be on my way."
"Where ya gonna go?"
"I'm not really sure. There's a road leading away from your house, I figured I would follow it."
"You're leaving us?" Merriweather said from the kitchen doorway. "It's not safe out there, Lou. You shouldn't go."
"Now love," said Grant. "If Lou wants to leave, he can leave. He's his own man." He turned back to Lou. "If you follow that road for a day, you'll reach Quad. It's a town with a couple dozen people living there. Much safer than my little farmhouse. If you decide to leave, I want you to take the sword with you. A gift from me to you, friend."
"Thanks Grant. Means a lot."
"Anytime. But if you're leaving for Quad, you should get moving fast. It's a long walk and you don't want to get caught outside when night falls."
"Right," Lou got up. The three of them went outside and stood at the beginning of the road. It was a shallow path, cutting down into the reddish dirt to reveal a light-colored layer beneath. Dead shrubs and a few cactuses bordered the road for its entirety.
"Good luck out there, Lou," said Merriweather. "Don't get caught outside after dark."
"What should I do if the sun sets?"
"Go somewhere high up. Hide if you can, but not in any caves. Those are where the zombies stay."
"Thanks for the advice." He extended a hand for Grant to shake, then another for Merriweather. And he set off down the road. Grant and Merriweather watched him shrink as he grew more distant.
"Do you think he'll be okay?" the girl asked her father.
"I've always been an optimist, dear. He'll at least reach a watchtower before dusk. If he's smart enough he'll spend the night in one."
Lou was a speck now, a black dot against the red, brown, and beige hues of the road and the dirt surrounding it. He did not return to Grant and Merriweather for a long time.
