“What if they’re not there?” asked Benny. “What if they’re somewhere else? What if the reapers took them?”
“You ask very bad questions.” Joe sighed. “Go away.”
“I can help.”
“In ten seconds I’m going to tell Grimm to bite something valuable off of you. Ten, nine, two . . .”
Benny left, but he wasn’t going to waste the rest of the day. Tomorrow was too late to start looking for something that Chong needed right now.
He stole a quad, fired up the engine, and went rocketing toward the desert.
FROM NIX’S JOURNAL
Yesterday Benny and I drove our quads along the inside of the perimeter fence here in Sanctuary. Only on this side of the trench, of course. Even so, it’s a total of fourteen miles of fence. There are two solders at the main gate and three two-man patrols on quads. Eight soldiers to guard all those miles of fence. We had more than that back in Mountainside.
It makes me wonder if there’s a problem with the security.
14
DR. MCREADY’S TRANSPORT PLANE HAD crashed more than ten miles from Sanctuary. The ride to the crash site was tricky, because the soldiers once stationed at the base had used dynamite to block most of the roads, leaving only a single twisted and obscure path through the red-rock mountains. A quad could just about ease through.
Benny’s quad was an ugly little machine with four fat rubber tires and a kind of saddle for the driver. Despite the horrible sound it made, Benny found he rather liked the machine. Over rough terrain it could travel an astounding twenty-five miles per hour. On a flat road, Benny had gotten his quad to go over forty miles per hour. On foot, he could manage as much as five miles an hour if he pushed it, and more often two to three because of terrain and weather conditions.
It amazed him that he could drive all the way back to Mountainside, a trip of over 470 miles, in two days. One if he didn’t stop to eat or pee. That kind of speed seemed unreal. It had taken more than a month to walk that distance. Granted, a lot of the travel time had been spent evading zoms, hunting for food, searching out paths, and training with their swords.
As Benny left Sanctuary, he paused for a moment to look at the hand-lettered sign that was hung on the big chain-link fence.
SANCTUARY
GIVE ME YOUR TIRED, YOUR POOR
YOUR HUDDLED MASSES YEARNING TO BREATHE FREE
Below that the original words, sand-blasted and pale, were still visible:
AREA 51
UNITED STATES AIR FORCE
THIS IS A RESTRICTED AREA
TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED
Benny took a long breath and exhaled through his nose, revved the engine of his quad, and headed out into the desert.
Those records were out there. Six boxes marked with a big letter D.
He was going to find them.
15
NIX RILEY COULD BARELY SEE the blade.
She parried more by reflex than anything, and the spear caromed off her sword with such force that shock waves rippled up her arms. The next blow was even harder, and the next. Nix stumbled back, swinging and swinging, breath coming in painful gasps. Finally one blow caught her sword just above the guard and knocked it out of her hands. It thudded to the ground. Her attacker kicked Nix’s feet out from under her, and Nix thumped down, hitting her elbows, her shoulders, and the back of her head on the hard sand. She suddenly felt the sharp tip of the spear press down between her breasts—right over her heart.
“You’re dead,” growled Lilah. They were on a rocky shelf a quarter mile behind the dormitory hangar. Sheer cliffs rose behind them, and all around were the shadowy clefts of deep arroyos. A few sparse cacti and Joshua trees littered the landscape, offering no useful shade at all.
Nix couldn’t really see the Lost Girl. The tears in her eyes smeared everything, removing all precision and meaning.
“Concentrate,” barked Lilah as they set themselves to begin another drill.
But too many things were clattering around in Nix’s mind.
She needed to apologize to Benny, but he was gone. She’d seen him drive away on a quad. She’d almost gone after him, but hadn’t. This needed fixing, but Nix didn’t know which words would form the glue of that repair.
So she’d gone looking for Captain Ledger, to see if he’d give her another combat lesson. He nearly sicced his dog on her.
The ranger was an enigma, one of the many things about this phase of her life that Nix didn’t understand. Sometimes he was so gruff and rude that she wanted to feed him to the zoms. Yet sometimes he could be extraordinarily kind and wise. Almost like Tom.
Shortly after arriving at Sanctuary, Joe gave Nix a real sword to replace the wooden sword she’d carried from Mountainside. He’d offered one to Lilah as well, but the Lost Girl preferred her spear.
The sword Joe gave Nix was one of several top-quality katanas the ranger possessed. The handle and fittings were new, but Joe said the blade was ancient. Hundreds of years old.
“Isn’t it fragile?” Nix asked, terrified that she might destroy so beautiful a relic.
But Joe laughed. “This sword was made by Hoki Yasutsuna, one of the greatest Japanese sword makers of all time. It’s a superb blade. I’d take it into any battle without hesitation. And it has a name, Dojigiri.”
“What’s it mean?”
Joe grinned. “Dojigiri means ‘Monster cutter.’ Rather appropriate, don’t you think?”
The sword did not look particularly impressive, with plain black silk bindings on the handle and a speckled cord. However, Nix accepted the sword with wide-eyed reverence.
“Dojigiri,” she repeated, holding it as if it would shatter in her hands. “Monster cutter. This is crazy. This must be worth a fortune.”
“It’s worth whatever value you place on it, Nix. No one else is looking. The whole value system is a historical footnote.”
“But . . . this should be in a museum.”
“Used to be,” said Joe with a smile. “It was a national treasure of Japan and happened to be part of a collection of priceless artifacts on loan to an American museum. Lately, though, the only people visiting museums are zombies and scavengers, so I liberated it along with some other goodies. Not really theft, is it? Besides . . . the sword was made to be used, not to gather dust. I believe Tom was training you kids to be samurai, right? So . . . be samurai.”
Benny drew his kami katana and showed it to Joe. “I have a good sword too.”
The ranger gave him a tolerant smile. “Not sure how to break this to you, kid, but your sword is a good-quality modern blade, and definitely reliable in a fight, but it’s not what you’d call a ‘legendary’ sword.”
Benny was affronted. “This was Tom’s sword.”
“Sure,” agreed Joe, “and he put it to good use, but the fact remains that they made about ten thousand swords just like that one. Hell, that one isn’t even Tom’s original.”
“Yes it is!” Benny insisted.
“No, it’s not. He broke his first sword a few days after First Night. He told me about it. Quite a story, too. And . . . I think he might have had another one after that. I was with him when he took this baby off one of the skull-riders who—”
“The who?” asked Benny and Nix together.
Joe blinked at them. “The skull-riders? The kill squad out of Reno?” He paused. “Tom never told you about that?”
“No,” said Benny and Nix at the same time.
“Didn’t he tell you about the time he and I and a guy named Solomon Jones took down a group of slavers up around Lake Tahoe? Or the time we teamed up with Hector Mexico, Johnny Apache, and the Beatbox Boys and cleared out the reavers who were raiding the trade route between the Nine Towns?”
“No,” Benny said heavily. “Are you making this stuff up? Tom never said anything about this. He was a bounty hunter, that’s all.”
“That’s all? Really?” Captain Ledger laughed. “How do you think Tom learned all his tricks? Y
ou think he got that good quieting zoms? Get your head out of your butt, kid. While everyone was building the towns and putting up that fence, your brother was riding with some hard-asses out in the Ruin.” He paused, considered, sighed. “But . . . I guess that’s Tom for you. He never was one to brag. Surprised you never asked the other bounty hunters about him.”
“The only bounty hunters Benny ever listened to were Charlie Pink-eye and the Motor City Hammer,” said Nix.
“Ah,” said Joe. “Those two. Tom would have done the whole world a favor by putting bullets in their brainpans back when he had the chance. Would have saved the world a lot of grief.” Joe suddenly stiffened and cut a sharp look at Nix, then winced. “Ahhh, jeez, I’m sorry. I forgot about your mom. I’m an idiot.”
Nix wanted to cry, but she kept her eyes dry. “Benny killed Charlie. I killed Marion Hammer.”
A slow smile formed on Joe’s face. “Seriously?”
“Yeah,” said Benny.
“Holy frog snot. You have got to tell me everything.”
So they told him about the murder of Nix’s mother and the horrors of that incident.
“I knew her, you know,” said Joe sadly. “Jessie was one classy lady. Gorgeous, too. You have her eyes, Nix. And her toughness. I know she’d be proud.”
Now tears rolled down Nix’s cheeks, but her voice didn’t break as they continued the story. When they got to the end, Joe clapped Benny resoundingly on the shoulder and kissed Nix on the forehead. “That’s sweet! That’s the cat’s ass. You killed Charlie with the Hammer’s own pipe, and then you killed him again in the zombie pits. Oh man, now that’s legendary.”
Nix wiped away her tears. “It didn’t feel legendary at the time. It was scary and weird.”
“Sure, but then all real adventures are scary and weird,” said Joe. “Believe me . . . I know.”
They returned to training, but Benny was clearly angry. Nix could understand why. Joe made a point of evaluating everything they’d learned from Tom, and frequently suggested some modifications. A couple of times that day Benny balked at changes in technique suggested by the ranger.
“That’s not how Tom did it.”
Joe’s reply to each comment was a shrug. “Do it whatever way will keep you alive.”
But Joe’s advice had pushed too many of Benny’s buttons. “Hey, man, stop acting like you know more than Tom.”
Joe smiled. It was a tolerant smile, but his patience clearly didn’t go too many layers deep. “Listen to me, kid. I’m offering you the chance to learn some extra skills and about the nature of warfare. You want to learn this stuff, fine. You don’t want to learn it, also fine. But understand two things about Tom. First, he was a very, very talented amateur, but he was an amateur. He was one day out of the police academy when First Night happened. He’d never served in the military. Most of what he learned about combat he picked up during the fourteen years he worked as a bounty hunter and closure specialist. And he learned a lot from me. Now . . . from what I saw when he ran with my pack, and from what I’ve heard since, Tom became seriously good. Good enough to spank Charlie Pink-eye and his crew, and tough enough so that Preacher Jack had to shoot him in the back rather than risk fighting him one-on-one. That says a lot. Tom was the kind of guy I’d want at my back in any situation. But here’s the flip side of that. Before First Night—for a lot of years before First Night—I was the top shooter in a group that hired only top shooters. I was fighting monsters, bad guys, and terrorists before Tom was even born. Grasp that for a minute, kid. I’m not saying this to brag. This is a perspective check. I’ve been fighting this war in one way or another for more than forty years. Even before First Night I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe. Stuff that would have you screaming into your pillow every night. I led combat teams into firefights on every continent, and I’ve killed more people than you ever met. With hands, guns, knives, and once with a paperback book. You think I’m trying to bust on your brother by correcting the way you swing a sword? Kid, if I wanted to humiliate him or you, I’d take that sword away from you and break it over my knee. But as it turns out, I happen to respect what you and Nix can do, and I respect what Tom taught you, and I respect Tom as a fallen brother-in-arms. I respect all of that so much that I want to make sure it doesn’t go to waste just because you have too much pride and ego to take some constructive criticism. So if you want to stop arguing with everything I say, then I’ll teach you every dirty trick I can so you stay alive.”
Benny glared up at him for a very long time. Finally, when his voice was under control, he said, “That’s one thing. You said there were two. What’s the other? Was there something else you wanted to say about my brother?”
Joe gave Benny the coldest smile Nix had ever seen on a human face.
“Yes,” said Joe. “Tom’s dead. I’m alive. After all these years, I’m still alive. That makes a statement. Learn from the survivors or go the hell home.”
That had been the end of the discussion. Benny had stormed off and spent the rest of the afternoon stewing about it.
The next day he was back, with his sword, his gear bag, and his apologetic pride.
Joe never said a word about the argument, never acknowledged it. They picked up where they’d left off, and Joe drilled them mercilessly. And well.
Both of them had improved quite a lot. They were faster, trickier, stronger, and far more devious.
Now, though . . .
Nix felt clumsy and stupid. Lilah got through her guard again and again and again.
“I—I’m sorry . . . ,” said Nix in a tiny voice.
“Sorry?” Lilah withdrew her spear, raised it over her head, and with a savage grunt drove it down. The blade bit inches deep into the sand right beside Nix’s face, chopping off several strands of curly red hair. “Sorry? Are you training for combat or practicing for your own death, you silly town girl?”
Nix covered her face with her hands and shook her head.
“I’m sorry,” was all she could say.
Lilah straightened and stood over Nix for a while. Then she threw her spear down in disgust and sank onto the ground beside the weeping girl.
“What is it?” Her voice was always a ghostly whisper.
Nix rolled toward her and wrapped her arms around Lilah, clinging to her as a child might. Clinging to her as a drowning person might.
They never heard the zoms coming until white fingers clamped like iron around their flesh.
16
WHEN RIOT COULDN’T BEAR TO stare at her mother any longer, she went to the playground to find Eve. They sat together on a blanket, with sewing gear scattered all around them: needles, spools of thread, balls of colored yarn, thimbles, and all sorts of fabric scraps.
As Riot watched, Eve used a pair of scissors to cut a piece of pink felt into the shape of a blouse. Almost the shape of a blouse. Currently it looked more like a blob or a three-legged pink turtle. Eve’s little pink tongue tip stuck out from the corner of her mouth as she worked.
Overhead, a pair of capuchin monkeys that had long ago escaped from a private zoo in Las Vegas capered among the leaves. The nuns had named them Charity and Forbearance. The children called the monkeys Chatty and Foobear.
“There!” said Eve proudly as she held out the finished piece.
“That looks pretty,” said Riot. The blouse still had three arms. “Is . . . one of those the neck hole?”
Eve considered the shirt, frowning slightly. “Oops,” she said, and trimmed one of the sleeves. “Better?”
“Way better,” agreed Riot. “That’s as pretty as a rainbow after a spring rain.”
Eve giggled.
They found some blue fabric for a skirt and little bits of brown for shoes, and Riot helped Eve glue and sew the pieces onto a burlap rag doll one of the nuns had made. As they worked, Chatty and Foobear crept down the tree and sat the edge of their blanket, watching with luminous dark eyes.
When the doll was nearly finished, Eve leaned over and bega
n sorting through the supplies until she found a nearly empty ball of bright red yarn. She held it against the doll to examine the color, and then nodded to herself. Riot watched as Eve cut off a few small pieces and began tying them around the doll’s neck. For one horrible moment Riot was afraid that Eve was making something like the red streamers that all the reapers wore tied to various places around their bodies. The streamers were symbolic of the red mouths opened in the flesh of the “heretics” that the reapers sent on into the eternal darkness. They were also dipped in a chemical mixture concocted by Sister Sun, which emitted a strong scent that discouraged the dead from attacking.
But that was not what Eve was doing.
She strung the red yarn around the doll’s throat.
“What’s that?” Riot asked, her smile broad and forced.
“A necklace.”
“Oh . . . nice. What kind of necklace? Is it a ruby necklace like a princess would wear?”
Eve looked at the red loop of yarn around the burlap throat of the doll. Then she slowly turned her face to Riot. The smile was so bright and happy.
“No, silly,” she said, “it’s like the one mommy wore. Remember? Her necklace was all bright and shiny.”
“Necklace . . . ?” Riot murmured. The heart in her chest turned instantly to ice.
Eve’s mother had indeed worn a necklace of shining red. She’d worn it the very last time Riot and Eve had seen her. It was not a necklace of rubies, of course, or even of garnets. The reaper Andrew had cut Eve’s mother down with a scythe. The blow had taken the woman across the throat, and the red that had glistened there had been her own bright blood.
Riot looked at the doll and then at Eve. The little girl smiled and smiled, bright as the summer sun, and behind those innocent blue eyes something shifted and moved.
Something very dark and very wrong.