THEM (Season 1): Episode 4 (7 page)

He chuckled. “Aw, man, that’s easy. Wolves got safe houses and relay points set up all through the city. So long as you travel under the sun and hit the safe houses on time, you can walk right through town with a dozen slaves in tow and never see a deader, not one.”

It sounded like a trap, but it was also the only thing that made sense. Since he’d told me where the compound was I’d been wondering how they got slaves safely through one of the most dangerous areas in the Corridor. I looked Pancho in the eye. “I need those maps.”

He laughed. “Well, obviously I ain’t got ‘em. They’s in my bag back where you snatched me. Good luck getting them, too. Even with that wolf you’re outnumbered and outgunned.”

I thought about it, and damn it if Pancho wasn’t right. However, I knew a way to take care of those punters and get the maps at the same time. “Pancho, I need you to tell me honest, and your life may just depend on this information. Are there any slaves in your group?”

He shook his head. “No, none. We came up empty-handed this trip. Slaves are getting harder to find this close to the Corridor. We was planning on crossing over and starting to hunt east of 35 for the next few weeks.”

I nodded once. “Good to know.” I leaned forward to gag him once more.

Pancho protested with his hands up in the air. “Hey, wait a minute now, what’re you going to do with me? You ain’t going to leave me for dead here, are you?”

“Nope. You’re coming with us to the Corridor as insurance.”

Pancho started cussing and spitting at me, so I leaned in again to gag him. He lifted his hands in protest one more time. “Wait, wait, wait, one more question afore you gag me again… why you keep calling me Pancho?”

My plan was simple; we’d follow the punters until they made camp again and then I’d arrange for a late night visit from the local wildlife, the same way I did when I rescued Bobby. The only difference now was I should be able to go in afterward and take what we needed without suffering the same fate. “Should” being the operative word.

An hour before dawn we had trussed Pancho from the waist up and had him trailing us by a length of rope tied to Donkey’s saddle. I knew he wouldn’t be able to hop on Donkey and ride off, nor would he be able to get close enough to the animal in order to untie himself from the saddle; Donkey wouldn’t allow it. He’d slow us down a bit, but not by much since about half the punters were traveling on foot as well.

I took the group off to the west, away from the Corridor but close enough so that Bobby and Gabby could take turns tracking them. Since we were more or less moving in the same direction, I wasn’t concerned about losing the group; I was only concerned about them picking up our trail and closing in on us. Bobby stayed behind and watched the punters from a distance, making note of their direction of movement and reporting back to me once they’d hit the trail. We followed about a half-mile behind them, out of sight and earshot, but close enough to track them until nightfall.

A few hours before dark, they stopped and set up for the night in an old YMCA along Hwy 290. We found a pawn shop with an enclosed yard still intact not too far from the punters’ location, and quietly cleared it of deaders before moving Donkey and our gear inside. The front of the shop was enclosed with a sliding security bar system, but it had long ago been sacked by looters who had apparently broke in through a rear window, which was our point of ingress as well.

Even though it’d been looted, we searched the place thoroughly just the same. Initially we turned up little more than a few half-empty boxes of shotgun shells, some loose .45 caliber and .22 rounds, and an old discarded hunting knife. I had about given up on searching the place when I came across a nice little find on top of a storage shelf in back. It was in what looked like a pool cue case, covered in black faux leather with rusting chrome latches and hinges keeping it shut. I dusted it off and popped the latches; inside was an old WWII Japanese NCO’s katana, still in the original scabbard, kept clean and dry in a silk bag that had apparently been made specifically for that purpose.

Many of these swords were junk, churned out in factories toward the middle and end of the war from substandard steel, and were nothing like the traditional
tamahagane
blades that Japanese sword smiths had crafted centuries before. However, every once in a while you’d come across an actual hand-smithed blade that had been cut down and refitted to a military-issue handle and guard, presumably so a descendant of some obscure samurai clan could carry his ancestor’s blade into battle against the
gaijin
. It was a damned shame really, to butcher an antique blade like that, but I could understand the utility of it—if not the aesthetics.

As it turned out, the blade in the scabbard was definitely folded steel, probably dating from the 17th century. Strangely enough, it had been fitted in the metal guard and hilt of an NCO’s sword, rather than in a custom hilt as would be the case with an officer’s sword. Beyond that I couldn’t tell much about it, not without taking it apart and looking up the bladesmith’s marks in a reference book that likely no longer existed. But it had been well-cared for and was in very good condition. I tested the blade’s edge with my thumbnail; it was just as sharp as the day they’d pawned it.

It’d been years since I’d done
gumdo
, the Korean version of Japanese
iaijutsu
and
kenjutsu
, but I still remembered the basic drills and forms. As soon as we had time, I intended to dust them off. I walked out to the front of the shop with my booty, tucking it alongside my ruck and bedroll. Bobby strode up to check it out as soon as he saw what I’d found.

“Ooooh, Afro Samurai. Cool.” He looked at me, then looked over at Pancho across the shop. “You think we should feed him?”

I pursed my lips and screwed my mouth sideways with mock indecision. “I suppose, although I’d just as soon starve him to death. Give him some jerky and trail bread, and make sure he gets some water too. It’ll be a damn sight better than he treated the slaves they captured, and better treatment than he deserves.”

Bobby nodded. “Agreed, but we do need to keep him healthy so he can keep up once we get closer to downtown.” He paused and sniffed in very canine manner. “You think he’ll lead us into a trap?”

“Maybe, but that’s a risk we’ll have to take. Once we get his maps, though, it’ll be a lot harder for him to do us dirty. Which is why we need to get them tonight.”

Bobby was about to enquire further when we were interrupted by Gabby emerging from the back rooms of the pawn shop. She was carrying a fairly serviceable sharpening stone and a lawn mower blade in her hands, with a look on her face that dared anyone to challenge her.

Bobby looked at me and winked, then grunted in a low voice. “Unh-hum. French-fried potaters? I reckon I’ll have me some of the biguns. Uh-hum.”

I chuckled and shook my head. “It’s no use son, she’s never seen
Slingblade
.”

Gabby looked confused, and Bobby just looked disappointed. Then he perked up and raised an index finger. “Ah hah! All the more reason to do a DVD run.”

I gestured around the room like a carnival barker introducing a bearded woman to a crowd of hicks at the county fair. “Well hell, look around. There’s bound to be a ton of DVDs around here somewhere. Never knew a crackhead who wouldn’t try to pawn a DVD for a fix.”

Bobby’s eyes lit up, and he started rummaging around the shelves and detritus of the pawn shop’s former showroom in earnest. Gabby still looked confused, so I spoke up to let her know what he was doing. “Pre-War movie references. Bobby wants to expand your cultural horizons.”

Gabby rolled her eyes with all the derision an 11-year-old girl could muster. “He likes weird stuff, like these movies he calls ahn-ee-may.”

I nodded. “Cartoons.”

“Yeah, those things. And he likes to watch some stupid show called Scooby-Doo, with this dog that talks and a bunch of kids who are about as dumb as rocks. Moving drawings…creepy. All the monsters are fake on that show, too.” She shook her head in disgust. “It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Bobby chimed in from across the room as he rifled through some fallen ceiling tiles. “That’s the whole point of the show, the talking dog always saves the day. Duh.”

Gabby stuck her tongue out at him. “It’s still dumb. Everyone knows dogs can’t talk.”

Bobby poked his head up from behind a broken glass counter. “Um, hello? Werewolf boy, right here in front of you.”

“But it’s not the same! You’re a person who was turned into a werewolf, not a dog who suddenly learned to talk.”

Bobby raised a finger from behind the counter and waggled it at her. “Ah, but that’s what makes Scooby-Doo such a classic! The eponymous hero of the show, our intrepid dog wonder, shows the universal superiority of the canine species by uncovering clues that prove vital to solving each and every mystery. Without him, those pesky kids would’ve never uncovered a single evil plot.”

She turned to me and frowned. “There’s no arguing with him, is there?”

I shrugged and pointed at the objects in her hands. “What’s with the hunk of steel?”

She gave Bobby raspberries over her shoulder, and then turned to answer me. “It seems to be pretty decent steel, and flat enough so it wouldn’t require much grinding. I figured with a little work and some heat treating, it’d make a pretty decent blade.”

I nodded in approval. “You know, back before the War, in the Philippines bladesmiths would make swords and knives out of just about any decent steel they could get their hands on. Leaf springs from old cars seemed to be a favorite, as well as railroad spikes.” I rubbed my chin in thought and tried to remember a bit of info from my past. “I seem to recall a way to make a pretty decent wood-fired forge from bricks and clay. Maybe when we get through this we can start experimenting with forging new weapons. That way we won’t have to worry about losing ours or breaking them.”

Gabby nodded. “Sounds like fun! I’m in.” Then she looked over her shoulder at Bobby. “And maybe we can make a muzzle for the
chachalaca
back there, too.”

I laughed. A chachalaca is a particularly noisy bird commonly found in South Texas. It was a nickname that was perfectly suited to Teen Wolf.

Bobby hopped over the counter with an armload of DVDs. “First off, I ain’t no chupacabra. Those cats are plain crazy—not even werewolves mess with them. Second, check it out! I got
Say Anything
,
Fast Times At Ridgemont High
,
The Toxic Avenger
—a classic—
Scarface
,
The Last Dragon
—Bruce Leroy catchin’ bullets with his teeth? Oh, and this Bruce Lee flick,
Enter The Dragon
.”

I snatched
Enter The Dragon
from his hands. “Bobby, you just got off my shit list.”

Bobby faced perked up. “Oh really? Well then don’t mention it…” Suddenly his face scrunched up in confusion. “Wait a minute. I was on your shit list?”

That night Bobby and I snuck over to the YMCA building just after dark and reconnoitered it with as much stealth as possible. The punters were on high alert after the disappearance of Pancho the night before, and there were no festivities going on. Instead, they had armed guards posted at every entrance on the roof, and from what I could tell they were moving around enough to make it tough to approach unnoticed.

I tapped Bobby on the shoulder and motioned for him to follow. We backed off about 50 yards, taking shelter in an overgrown area between two buildings. Deaders tended to avoid thick undergrowth, so we’d be relatively safe from prying eyes there. I leaned in and whispered my plan.

He looked at me like I was crazy. “I don’t know, boss, it seems risky as hell. What if they decide to start taking pot shots?”

I shook my head. “Nope, not this close to the Corridor. We’re only a few miles from IH-35 and downtown, and there’s no way they want to attract much attention with this many deadheads and freaks around.” ‘Freaks’ was a general term I’d picked up from Bobby, which he used to describe all manner of paranormal creatures—werewolves not included, of course. “It’ll be safe, trust me.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m just saying, if you get killed on my watch, Gabby will never forgive me. And I do not want that girl pissed at me.”

I stifled a chuckle and patted him on the shoulder. “Bobby, you’re starting to learn the ways of dealing with the fairer sex. Just don’t get them mad in the first place.”

He smirked and tilted his head at the Y. “You sure you don’t want me going with you?”

“Nope, just stick to the plan. It’ll be safer that way, and I’ll be in and out before you know it.”

He still looked unconvinced. “Alright, I suppose I don’t have a choice. We’ll meet back here in 20 minutes. But if you don’t come out in 30, I’m going to get Gabby and we’re coming in after you.”

“Fair enough. See you in 20.” I set my rifle down and most of my combat gear, save one pistol that I tucked into the back of my waistband, and my battlehawk, also concealed. I rubbed a bunch of dirt and mud on my face and hands and took off toward an area near the YMCA at a slow trot. Once I’d spotted what I was looking for, I stood up and trudged my way directly into them. My target was a small herd of deaders that were milling around between two buildings, about 40 yards from the main entrance of the Y. As I had suspected, they ignored me as I slowly walked among them, imitating their herky-jerky movements to blend in with the herd.

Soon I heard a loud noise come from the YMCA building, which naturally attracted a lot of attention from the deaders. They began moaning and carrying on, and shuffling more or less in that direction. As planned, Bobby had waited until I was among the deader herd, then snuck within range and chunked a large fist-sized rock at an old car that had been left near the entrance. The noise that the rock made as it bounced off the fender was louder than I anticipated, and likely to bring deaders in from half a mile around. I silently hoped that I wouldn’t be overrun by them during my escape.

As the herd shuffled up to the front of the YMCA, I could see two guards on top of the building looking around to investigate the noise. One had a rifle up and scanned the area through his sights. As he saw the first few Z’s come into the outer glow of their watchfires, he raised his rifle and sighted in on one in the lead. I held my breath until his partner saw what he was doing and stopped him.

“Yo, man, are you freaking nuts? Start shooting at those damn things and you’ll have every Z within five miles honing in on us. Chill out, man. It was probably just another deader that knocked something over. They’ll walk around for a while and then leave when they figure out there’s no food. Back away from the edge so they don’t notice you, and keep out of sight until they leave.”

The trigger happy guard just nodded and grunted in response, and both backed away from the edge of the roof and out of sight. I breathed a silent sigh of relief, then shuffled off to separate myself from the herd. Once I was close to the wall of the building, I turned and made sure none of the other deaders were following me. Once I was sure they were still preoccupied with determining the source of the noise, I began to sneak around to the side of the building to look for a way to let my new friends in.

I found a side entrance that was partially boarded up with plywood and listened for movement on the other side. Assured that no one would notice my B&E attempt, I began slowly working at it with the spike on my tomahawk. Within a few minutes I had a corner and one edge pulled loose, with minimal sound to draw attention to me. I tested the rest of the panel to see if it would pull loose with a few strong tugs and prayed for the best. Then, I yanked at it once, twice, three times, finally tearing it loose with several loud pops and squeals of protest from the nails and screws that had held it in place for years. Wasting no time to see if the Z’s would investigate, I scrambled inside and ran down a hall in the opposite direction from the startled voices I heard coming to investigate.