Rot & Ruin (6 page)

“Will this stuff stop the zoms?”

“Nothing stops them,” said Tom. “But this slows them down, makes most of them hesitate before biting. Even drives some away. It gives you an edge and a little breathing room, but don’t think you can stroll through a crowd of them with no risk.”

“That’s encouraging,” Benny said under his breath.

They were dressed for a long hike. Tom had instructed Benny to wear good walking shoes, jeans, a durable shirt, and a hat to keep the sun from boiling his brains.

“If it’s not already too late,” Tom said.

Benny made a rude gesture when Tom wasn’t looking.

Despite the heat, Tom wore a lightweight jacket with lots of pockets. He had an old army gun belt around his narrow waist, with a pistol snugged into a worn leather holster. Benny wasn’t allowed to have a gun yet.

“Eventually,” Tom said, then added, “Maybe.”

“I learned gun safety in school,” Benny protested.

“You didn’t learn it from me,” Tom said with finality.

The last thing Tom strapped on was a sword. Benny watched with interest as Tom slung a long strap diagonally across his body, from left shoulder to right hip, with the hilt standing above his shoulder so that he could reach up and over for a fast right-handed draw.

The sword was a
katana
, a Japanese long sword that Benny had seen Tom practice with every day for as long as he could remember. That sword was the only thing about his brother that Benny thought was cool. Benny’s mom, who was Tom’s adopted mother, was Irish, but their father had been Japanese. Tom once told Benny that the Imura family went all the way back to the samurai days of ancient Japan. He showed Benny picture books of fierce-looking Japanese men in armor. Samurai warriors.

“Are you a samurai?” Benny had asked when he was nine.

“There are no samurai anymore,” Tom said, but even back then Benny thought that Tom had a funny look on his face when he said that. Like maybe there was more to say on the subject, but he didn’t want to say it right then. When Benny brought the subject up a couple of times since, the answer was always the same.

Even so, Tom was pretty damn good with the sword. He
could draw fast as lightning, and Benny had seen him do a trick once when Tom thought no one else was looking. He threw a handful of grapes into the air, then drew his sword and cut five of them in half before they fell to the grass. The blade was a blur. Later, after Tom had gone off to a store, Benny counted the grapes. Tom had thrown six into the air. He’d only missed one. That was sweet.

Of course, Benny would sooner eat broken glass than tell Tom how impressive he thought it was.

“Why are you bringing that?” he asked as Tom adjusted the lay of the strap.

“It’s quiet,” Tom said.

Benny understood that. Noise attracted zoms. A sword was quieter than a gun, but it also meant getting closer. Benny didn’t think that was a very smart idea. He said as much, and Tom just shrugged.

“Then why bring the gun?” Benny persisted.

“’Cause sometimes quiet doesn’t matter.” Tom patted his pockets to do a quick inventory to make sure he had everything he needed. “Okay,” he said, “let’s go. We’re burning daylight.”

Tom tipped a couple of fence runners to bang on drums six hundred yards north, and as soon as that drew away the wandering zoms, Tom and Benny slipped out into the great Rot and Ruin and headed for the tree line.

Chong waved to them from the corner tower.

“We need to move fast for the first half mile,” cautioned Tom, and he broke into a jog-trot that was fast enough to get them out of scent range but slow enough for Benny to match.

A few of the zombies staggered after them, but the fence runners banged on the drums again, and the zombies, incapable of holding on to more than one reaction at a time, turned back toward the noise. The Imura brothers vanished into the shadows under the trees.

When they finally slowed to a walk, Benny was sweating. It was a hot start to what would be a scorcher of a day. The air was thick with mosquitoes and flies, and the trees were alive with the sound of chattering birds. Far above them the sun was a white hole in the sky.

“We’re not being followed,” Tom said.

“Who said we were?”

“Well … ever since we left you keep looking back toward the fence line.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Or are you looking to see if any of your friends came to see you off? Other than Chong, I mean. Maybe a certain red-haired girl?”

Benny stared at him. “You are completely delusional.”

“You’re going to tell me that you don’t have a thing for Nix Riley?”

“A world of no.”

“How come I found a sheet of paper with her name written on it maybe a million times?”

“Must have been Morgie’s.”

“It was your handwriting.”

“Then I guess I was practicing my penmanship. What is it with you? I told you, I don’t have a thing for Nix. Let it go.”

Tom turned away without another word, but Benny caught his smile. He cursed under his breath for the next mile.

“How far are we going?” Benny asked.

“Far. But don’t worry, there are way stations where we can crash if we don’t make it back tonight.”

Benny looked at him as if he’d just suggested they set themselves on fire and go swimming in gasoline. “Wait—You’re saying we could be out all
night
?”

“Sure. You know I’m out there for days at a time. You’re going to have to do what I do. Besides, except for some wanderers, most of the dead in this area have long since been cleaned out. Every week I have to go farther away.”

“Don’t they just come to you?”

Tom shook his head. “There are wanderers—what the fence guards call ‘noms,’ short for ‘nomadic zombies’—but most don’t travel. You’ll see.”

The forest was old but surprisingly lush in the late August heat. Tom found fruit trees, and they ate their fill of sweet pears as they walked. Benny began filling his pockets with them, but Tom shook his head.

“They’re heavy and they’ll slow you. Besides, I picked a route that’ll take us through what used to be farm country. Lots of fruit growing wild. Some vegetables, too. Wild beans and such.”

Benny looked at the fruit in his hand, sighed, and let them fall.

“How come nobody comes out here to farm this stuff?” he asked.

“People are scared.”

“Why? There’s got to be forty guys working the fence.”

“No, it’s not the dead that scare them. People in town don’t trust anything out here. They think there’s a disease infesting everything. Food, the livestock that have run wild over the last fourteen years—everything.”

“Yeah …,” Benny said diffidently. He’d heard that talk. “So … it’s not true?”

“You ate those pears without a thought.”

“You handed them to me.”

Tom smiled. “Oh, so you trust me now?”

“You’re a dork, but I don’t think you want to turn me into a zom.”

“Wouldn’t have to get on you about cleaning your room, so let’s not rule it out.”

“You’re so funny, I almost peed my pants,” Benny said without expression, then said, “Wait, I don’t get it. Traders bring in food all the time, and all the cows and chickens and stuff. … They were brought to town by travelers and hunters and people like that, right? So …”

“So, why do people think it’s safe to eat that stuff and not the food growing wild out here?”

“Yeah.”

“Good question.”

“Well, what’s the answer?”

“The people in town trust what’s inside the fence.
Currently
inside the fence. If it came from outside, they remark on it. Like, on the second Wednesday of every month, folks will say, ‘’Bout time for the wagons, ain’t it?,’ but they don’t really acknowledge where the wagons come from or why the
wagons are covered in sheet metal and the horses wrapped in carpet and chain mail. They know, but they don’t know. Or don’t want to know.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

Tom walked a bit before he said, “There’s town and then there’s the Rot and Ruin. Most of the time they aren’t in the same world, you know?”

Benny nodded. “I guess I do.”

He stopped and stared ahead with narrowed eyes. Benny couldn’t see anything, but then Tom grabbed his arm and pulled him quickly off the road and led him in a wide circle through the groves of trees. Benny peered between the hundreds of tree trunks and finally caught a glimpse of three zoms, shuffling slowly along the road. One was whole; the other two had ragged flesh where other zoms had feasted on them while they were still alive.

Benny opened his mouth and almost asked Tom how he knew they were there, but Tom made a shushing gesture and continued on, moving soundlessly through the soft summer grass.

When they were well clear, Tom took them back up to the road.

“I didn’t even see them!” Benny gasped, turning to look back.

“Neither did I.”

“Then how … ?”

“You get a feel for this sort of thing.”

Benny held his ground, still looking back. “I don’t get it. There were only three of them. Couldn’t you have … you know …”

“What?”

“Killed them,” said Benny flatly. “Charlie Matthias said he’ll go out of his way to chop a zom or two. He doesn’t run from anything.”

“Is that what he says?” Tom murmured, then continued down the road.

Benny shrugged, then followed.

7

T
WICE MORE
T
OM PULLED
B
ENNY OFF THE ROAD SO THEY COULD CIRCLE
around wandering zombies. After the second time, once they were clear of the creatures’ olfactory range, Benny grabbed Tom’s arm and demanded, “Whyn’t you just pop a cap in them?”

Tom gently pulled his arm free. He shook his head and didn’t answer.

“What, are you afraid of them?” Benny yelled.

“Keep your voice down.”

“Why? You afraid a zom will come after you? Big, tough zombie killer who’s afraid to kill a zombie.”

“Benny,” said Tom with thin patience, “sometimes you say some truly stupid things.”

“Whatever,” Benny said, and pushed past him.

“Do you know where you’re going?” Tom said when Benny was a dozen paces along the road.

“This way.”

“I’m not,” said Tom, and he began climbing the slope of a hill that rose gently from the left-hand side of the road. Benny stood in the middle of the road and seethed for a full minute.
He was muttering the worst words he knew all the while he climbed up the hill after Tom.

There was a narrower road at the top of the hill, and they followed that in silence. By ten o’clock they’d entered a series of steeper hills and valleys that were shaded by massive oak trees with cool green leaves. Tom cautioned Benny to be quiet as they climbed to the top of a ridge that overlooked a small country lane. At the curve of the road was a small cottage with a fenced yard and an elm tree so gnarled and ancient that it looked like the world had grown up around it. Two figures stood in the yard, but they were too small to see. Tom flattened out at the top of the ridge and motioned for Benny to join him.

Tom pulled his field glasses from a belt holster and studied the figures for a long minute.

“What do you think they are?” He handed the binoculars to Benny, who snatched them with more force than was necessary. Benny peered through the lenses in the direction Tom pointed.

“They’re zoms,” Benny said.

“No kidding, boy genius. But what
are
they?”

“Dead people.”

“Ah.”

“Ah …
what
?”

“You just said it. They’re dead
people
. They were once living people.”

“So what? Everybody dies.”

“True,” admitted Tom. “How many dead people have you seen?”

“What kind of dead? Living dead, like them, or dead dead, like Aunt Cathy?”

“Either. Both.”

“I don’t know. The zombies at the fence … and a couple of people in town, I guess. Aunt Cathy was the first person I ever knew who died. I was, like, six when she died. I remember the funeral and all.” Benny continued to watch the zombies. One was a tall man, the other a young woman or teenage girl. “And … Morgie Mitchell’s dad died after that scaffolding collapsed. I went to his funeral too.”

“Did you see either of them quieted?”

“Quieted” was the acceptable term for the necessary act of inserting a metal spike, called a “sliver,” into the base of the skull to sever the brain stem. Since First Night, anyone who died would reanimate as a zombie. Bites made it happen too, but really any recently deceased person would come back. Every adult in town carried at least one sliver, though Benny had never seen one used.

“No,” he said. “You wouldn’t let me stay in the room when Aunt Cathy died. And I wasn’t there when Morgie’s dad died. I just went to the funerals.”

“What were the funerals like? For you, I mean.”

“I dunno. Kind of quick. Kind of sad. And then everyone went to a party at someone’s house and ate a lot of food. Morgie’s mom got totally shitfaced—”

“Language.”

“Morgie’s mom got drunk,” Benny said in way that suggested having his language corrected was as difficult as having his teeth pulled. “Morgie’s uncle sat in the corner singing Irish songs and crying with the guys from the farm.”

“That was a year, year and a half ago, right? First spring planting?”

“Yeah. They were building a corn silo, and Mr. Mitchell was using the rope hoist to send some tools up to the crew working on the silo roof. One of the scaffolding pipes broke, and a whole bunch of stuff came crashing down on him.”

“It was an accident.”

“Well, yeah, sure.”

“How’d Morgie take it?”

“How do you think he took it? He was fu—I mean, he was screwed up.” Benny handed back the glasses. “He’s still a little screwed up.”

“How’s he screwed up?”

“I don’t know. He misses his dad. They used to hang out a lot. Mr. Mitchell was pretty cool, I guess.”

“Do you miss Aunt Cathy?”

“Sure, but I was little. I don’t remember that much. I remember she smiled a lot. She was pretty. I remember she used to sneak me extra ice cream from the store where she worked. Half an extra ration.”