Bits & Pieces (49 page)

Michelle ran point and she suddenly stopped, her fist raised in the way Dolan had taught them. They all saw the closed fist and froze, hands on weapons, eyes and ears alert.

Michelle waved them on and they clustered around her, looking where she pointed. “There's something down there.”

A hundred feet downslope was a road, and through the leaves they could see the humped back of an old-fashioned wagon like the ones in storybooks of the Old West.

“Something's dead down there,” said Laura.

They all nodded. Although the tassels blocked their sense of smell, they could hear the drone of blowflies. Samantha looked up to see that the sky was filled with crows and vultures turning in slow circles.

“Really dead,” she said. The others nodded at that, too. In the perversion of death that was the zombie plague, carrion birds did not feed on the living dead. Only corpses whose life force had been totally extinguished by injury to the brain or brain stem rotted in a way that attracted scavengers.

Samantha took point now and led them down through the brush. The closer they got to the road, the more the trees
and shrubs thinned out and the more a horror was revealed.

The wagon was an old-fashioned chuck wagon that had probably been looted from a cowboy museum. The sides had been reinforced with metal sheeting, and on the sides the words
GUNDERSON TRADE GOODS
had been painted in bright colors. There were bodies everywhere. Humans and horses. They had been killed in ugly ways, and they'd been left to rot. The ground was splashed with blood and littered with shell casings from pistols and shotguns.

Nothing moved except the flies.

If any of the victims of this massacre had reanimated, their living corpses had wandered off.

The girls fanned out across the road, looking at the dead, checking the wagon, scanning the surrounding woods.

“Reapers?” asked Laura.

Tiffany nodded. “Has to be. Who else would do something like this?”

“Why'd they kill the horses?” asked Heather. Ida had found an old wild horse years ago, and they'd had it for seven years before it died. Heather was destroyed when the horse was found dead in its stall. She stood looking down at the body of a massive Percheron. “Why would anyone kill a horse?”

Samantha shook her head but didn't say anything about the slaughter. She knelt for a moment and looked at tracks that were cut into the bloody soil.

“What's that?” asked Laura.

“I don't know.”

“A wolf?” asked Michelle.

“Too big.”

“A dog?” suggested Amanda. “Like a mastiff?”

Years ago, when the adults were still alive, a traveler had come through the area. A big man accompanied by a monstrous American mastiff. He'd stopped only for a cup of coffee before moving on, and afterward Samantha and the girls had looked at the prints left behind in the road. They were similar to these.

“It's not a mastiff,” Samantha decided. “These are too big.”

They looked around at the darkening woods. There were so many strange animals out there. Wild creatures that had escaped from zoos or come in packs from other countries like Mexico and farther south. There was no way to identify these prints now, and no time to waste in trying.

Samantha said, “It's getting dark. We need to find a place for tonight.”

One by one the girls turned away, sickened and saddened by the senseless death. Samantha watched them head up the road, moving off the road and preparing to cut across country. There were plenty of empty houses and old buildings everywhere, and they hadn't seen a reaper now for almost two hours.

Samantha lingered for a moment longer, thinking about the killings. She wanted to find some justification for what she'd done. These dead bodies were proof that the reapers were evil.

Right?
she asked herself.
What I did to that woman wasn't wrong. It was justice. Right?

The questions echoed inside her head like thunder.

She wiped at her eyes, turned away, and hurried after the others.

But then she jerked to a halt as she saw something in the
thickening gloom. It was a figure sitting slumped over against a tree. Big, bulky, bleeding.

It was in near-total darkness, except for one slack, outstretched arm that was covered with blood.

The blood looked fresh.

Had it moved? Did the fingers of that slack arm twitch?

Was it a victim of the attack reanimating as a zom?

That fit the circumstances but not the timing. This massacre was hours old, maybe as much as half a day. Any dead would have risen.

Unless . . .

There were two real possibilities. A person who'd been injured and had recently passed, and was now reanimating. Or a person who was injured and perhaps dying. Alive, but badly wounded.

Samantha wanted to turn and run. This wasn't her matter; it had nothing to do with her. If it was a zombie, then dispatching it was a dangerous waste of time. If it was a wounded person, then it would be a drag on resources and a burden when efficient flight might be the only thing that would help Samantha and her little tribe survive.

She started to turn. She actually took three small steps away from the slumped fingers, but then she stopped again.

The hand twitched again.

Samantha backed away. She wanted no part of this; she wasn't sure she could be a participant to another death. She'd had her fill.

She turned her back on the figure and began to jog along the path taken by the other girls.

“Please . . .”

It was a single word, and she could have imagined it.

Perhaps it was not even a word.

She stopped and squeezed her eyes shut.

The word echoed in her head.

Please.

Up ahead the other girls were making good time, but Heather, the last in the line, glanced back.

“Come on!” called the girl.

Samantha nodded.

But not to Heather.

She abruptly turned and walked back to the slumped figure.

That one arm lay in the last of the day's fading light. Pale skin with red hair that was coarse as wire. A thick wrist, corded muscles. Blood. Beneath the gore the arm was crisscrossed with scars, old and new. Samantha had seen every kind of injury in her young life, and she could recognize the marks of violence. Knife cuts and other trauma. Whoever this person was, he'd been hurt over and over again. Some of the scars were so faint that it was evident they were very old, perhaps wounds suffered in childhood.

The figure spoke again. Hoarse, a damaged croak of a voice.

“Please . . .”

Samantha licked her lips. “Are . . . are you one of them?”

“Please . . .”

“Are you one of them? Are you a killer?”

The shadow-shrouded body moved, and with a hiss of pain and a grunt of effort, the man leaned his head and shoulders out of the shadows. He had pale eyes that seemed to
reflect the fiery light of sunset. His face was lined with pain and white with blood loss.

“I'm a killer,” he said in a voice that was filled with darkness and cold winds. A voice filled with a great and terrible sadness. “But . . . not like them.”

Samantha said nothing. Her spear felt like it weighed a million pounds.

The man spoke very softly. “I'm . . . like you.”

“Like me?”

He nodded and gave her the faintest of smiles. “Like you.”

Samantha bristled. “You don't even know me.”

He didn't reply to that, but instead reached out his bloody hand. “Please,” he said, “help me.”

She took a small step backward. “Why should I?”

The man didn't answer, and his hand remained out for her to take.

“Come out where I can see you,” ordered Samantha. “If I see a gun or knife, I'll put you down like a dog.”

The man made a sound. It could have been a laugh.

But then he moved, his bulk shifting inside the bank of shadows. He got clumsily and slowly to his knees; then, with small grunts and hisses of pain, he managed to get to his feet. He took two trembling steps forward and then stood swaying in the fiery light.

“God . . . ,” breathed Samantha.

The man was huge, with massive muscles that seemed molded onto him like lumps of clay. His clothes were torn and slashed, and there were barely enough left to cover him. The ruined shirt and trousers revealed limbs and a torso that were covered with scars and old burns and what looked like healed-over
bullet wounds. Even with all the refugees and survivors of the Fall she'd seen, Samantha had never once beheld a person who had suffered a tenth as many injuries as this man.

There was a fresh wound on his chest, almost directly over his heart, but it could not have been as deep as it looked. Blood was painted across his body and down each limb.

He looked down at her with the strangest and least human eyes she had ever seen. The irises seemed to be as red as the sunset, and they were rimmed with burning gold.

“What—what—happened to you?” stammered Samantha.

Those eyes were filled with sadness.

“Too much,” he said.

He carried no weapon, and despite his muscles he seemed on the verge of collapse. His face was pale, almost gray, and his lips were dry and cracked.

For reasons Samantha wasn't able to explain, she stepped close to the man, reached out a hand, and lightly touched the edge of the wound over his heart.

“Are you going to die?” she asked.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he said, but if anything the sadness in his eyes intensified as he said it.

“Can you walk?”

He shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “Not alone.”

“Are you safe?” Samantha raised her hand from his chest to his cheek. “Will you hurt me?”

“No,” he said. “I'm not safe.”

She almost pulled her hand away.

“But I won't hurt you, Samantha.”

She stiffened. “But—but—how do you know my name?”

He did not answer the question. “My name's Mike.”

In the gathering dusk, caught in the web of so strange an encounter, Samantha remembered two things. The first was something Ida had said to them once about twilight when all the girls were little.

“Twilight is a strange time, my girls,” Ida had said. “In daylight you can see things the way they are. At night everything's a guess, 'cause so many things are hidden by shadows. But twilight is a little of both. It's real and unreal. You see things, but you can't be sure of what you see. People used to believe that twilight was when the world of what's real and what's unreal creaks open. If you're not careful, you can step right through into who knows where. Or maybe something from over there can step through.”

Heather had asked, “Something from where?”

And Ida had answered, “From anywhere that isn't here.”

“That doesn't make sense,” declared Samantha, who, even when young, was not given to fancy.

Ida gave them all a wink and a knowing smile. “During twilight nothing has to make sense.”

Now it was twilight, and things seemed to have stopped making clear sense. It was like the sharp edges that defined the world during the day had been sanded down to a point where they were indistinct and untrustworthy.

“Listen to me,” said Mike, wincing as pain flashed through him. “I'll make you a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” asked Samantha suspiciously.

He shivered with the onset of shock and fever. “If you
help me now, tonight . . . then I'll make sure nothing ever happens to you and your friends.”

“You can't make a promise like that.”

He smiled. It was the most human thing about him. Despite the blood and his wounds, despite the strangeness of his eyes and the impossibility of his knowing her name, despite everything that made this encounter seem like something out of a dream, that smile held no trace of threat. None.

“Yes,” he said, “I can make that promise.”

She started to back away.

“Please,” he said.

Please.

In the woods far behind them, they could hear the dead moan as they followed the silent calls of the reapers.

Without realizing that she was going to do it, Samantha turned sideways to him.

“Come on,” she said, “lean on me.”

He hesitated. “Are you sure? You can still walk away.”

She looked down at the ground. His feet were bare, and there was dirt caked under his toenails as if he'd dug them into the ground. His clothes did not look like they'd been cut. They looked like they'd burst apart.

Samantha knew that she should have been terrified. She knew that she should shove this man away from her, that she should run to find her friends and then run farther until this place was far behind her.

She knew that.

And yet.

There was something about this man.

Here was a person who had suffered so much, survived so much, had so much will to live that he risked making promises despite being on the edge of death. And in the woods here were the living dead and those whose purpose was to exterminate all life.

It came down to that choice.

Between the takers of life and a man who clearly fought harder than anyone she had ever met to belong to life.

If it was a strange choice for her to make, then she blamed it on twilight.

Somehow she knew Ida would approve.

She took the big man's arm and laid it across her shoulders.

“Come on,” she said. “I'll help you.”

Together Samantha and Iron Mike Sweeney made their slow and careful way past evidence of carnage, away from death, toward life.

Area 51

It took a long time to walk down the mountain.

They didn't take the goat path. Instead they went a back way that was easier but longer. Fifty feet down that road they came to a spot where two soldiers lay. Both were dressed in the uniforms of the American Nation, the new government that had formed after the destruction of the old world. It was clear that these men had been on guard but had been surprised, overwhelmed, and murdered by the reapers. It was
equally clear that Captain Ledger had quieted them. Both of them had distinctive knife wounds in the backs of their heads, right at the weak point where the spine enters the skull. What Tom had once called the “sweet spot.”