“Sure, kid, it says so on a Zombie Card. It must be true.”
“My friend is dying,” growled Benny. “We can’t give up.”
“You think you’re the only person who can feel pain?” asked Joe, his eyes old and bleak. “Before this thing started, I had a wife and a six-month-old kid. I was overseas on a mission when the Reaper Plague got loose. I called my wife, told her to get the hell out, to go to my uncle’s farm near Robinwood, Maryland. It took me a week to get a flight back to the States. By the time I got to San Diego, the whole country was going nuts. No more commercial flights. The military bases were trashed too. When the people started panicking, everybody flocked to the closest base, but because so many of the refugees were already bitten and infected, those bases turned into killing fields. I stole a helicopter from a National Guard base that had become an all-you-can-eat buffet and made it halfway across the country before the army started dropping nukes on the zoms. The EMPs killed the engine, killed my cell phone and our satellite phone. Helicopter died, and we went down hard. There were ten of us on the bird. Four of us survived the landing. We split up and each tried to find our way home. It took me three weeks to make it all the way to my uncle Jack’s place. But . . . there was no one there. The place had burned to the ground, so there was no way for me to tell if my wife and kid ever made it there.”
Benny stared at him.
“So why am I telling you all this?” asked Joe. “I’m telling you this because everything in our world points to my family being dead. My wife, my son, my uncle. My brother, Sean, and his family in Baltimore. I never found any of them. Not a hint, not a sign in all these years. They probably are dead. They’re probably walking around as the living dead, just like everyone else. But you know what?”
Benny said nothing. He doubted he could even speak.
Joe laid his hand on the butt of his holstered pistol. “If I believed that, if I actually got to the point where I believed that everyone I ever loved was dead, then I’d blow out all my own lights. But I don’t know that, kid. I don’t. I can’t. Not even now, not even after the setback with Doc McReady’s notes.” He sighed. “All I got left is one slim chance that the world isn’t totally broken. That’s what keeps me going, and that’s why I won’t lay down my arms.”
Finally Benny said, “Then why get drunk?”
The ranger shook his head. “Sometimes despair gets in a few good punches. Last night was a bad night. This morning sucks too. This afternoon I’ll map out a search grid, and first thing in the morning I’m going to start looking under every stone, inside every cave, and up the butt-hole of every lizard in the desert. If those records are there, I will find them.”
“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? You 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.”