The Last Star (13 page)

27

A SHADOW RISES
at the pit’s edge, silhouetted against the blaze of stars overhead, a small figure, its head cocked to one side, listening. I don’t even think about it: I hold my breath and go limp, watching him through slitted lids. He’s holding a familiar-looking object in his right hand. A KA-BAR combat knife, standard issue to all recruits.

The woman’s fingers loosen on my throat. She’s gone limp, too. Who do I trust? Her, him, neither?

Thirty seconds pass, a minute, pushing two. I don’t move. She doesn’t move. He doesn’t move. I won’t be able to hold my breath—or put off the decision—much longer. I’ll have to take either a breath or a shot—at
somebody.
But my arms are entangled with dead ones, and anyway, I lost the rifle when I fell. I don’t even know where it landed.

He does, though, the priest who traded his crucifix for a knife.
“I see your rifle, son,” he says. “Come on up. There’s nothing to fear. They’re all dead and I’m completely harmless.” He kneels at the edge of the ossuary and holds out his empty hand. “Don’t worry, you can have your rifle back. I don’t like guns. I never have.”

He smiles. Then the not-dead lady’s got him by the wrist. Then he’s flying into the pit with us and then there’s Dumbo’s sidearm against his temple and her voice saying, “
Then you’re gonna hate this,
” and then the priest’s head explodes.

Not sure, but I think that’s my cue to get the hell out of that hole.

28

I’VE LOST MY RIFLE
. And somehow the not-dead lady ended up with the pistol. I have no idea if she saved my life or just started with the priest and I’m next.

Pushing and clawing your way out of a mass grave wasn’t something they covered in camp. Because under normal circumstances, if you find yourself neck-deep in dead people, the odds are you’re probably one yourself.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she says. She smiles broadly, and that’s gotta hurt with a broken cheek.

“Then drop the gun.”

She does, immediately. She holds up her empty hands.

“How do you know my name?” I ask. More of a shout, really.

“Marika told me.”

“Who the hell is Marika?” I scoop up the pistol. She makes no move to stop me.

“The girl standing behind you.”

I pivot quickly to the left, keeping her in my peripheral vision. There’s nobody behind me.

“Look, lady, I’m having a really bad day. Who are you and who was that little guy you just killed and where is Teacup? Where’s Ringer?”

“I told you, Zombie.” With a trilling little laugh. “She’s
behind
you.”

I raise the gun to the level of her eyes. I’m not scared or confused anymore. I’m just pissed. I don’t know if she’s the Silencer of the caverns and I really don’t care. I’m killing every stranger in my path until I find somebody who isn’t one.

I know what’s what. Jesus Christ, of course I know. I knew it before I left the safe house. It’s all been for nothing,
nothing.
Dumbo’s going to die for nothing, because Ringer is nothing. She’s lying in that tangle of bodies, a raven-haired, smile-less nothing, along with Teacup, both of them nothing, like the seven billion other nothings busy breaking down into random molecules of nothing. And I’m going to help. I’m going to do my part. I’m going to murder every dumbass stupid bastard who’s unlucky enough to cross my path.

They wanted a mindless, stone-cold killer to let loose on the world. They wanted a zombie. Now they’ve got one.

I take aim at that silly, smiling, busted-up face and squeeze the trigger.

29

RINGER

I’M PROBABLY
going to regret this.

Keeping Constance around is like finding a viper in bed with your kids. Going after it risks hurting the kids more than the snake.

So I almost let Zombie do it. It was tempting. But a millisecond before the bullet exits the barrel, I ram my open palm into his elbow, throwing off the shot. His gun is in my hand by the time the report sounds.

He whirls around, his hand balled into a fist, which is aimed at my head. I catch it.

Zombie’s shoulder jerks on impact—as if he’s punched a brick wall—and then his mouth drops open and his eyes grow wide with astonishment and disbelief, a reaction so clichéd and predictable, he almost does it: He almost gets me to smile.

Almost.

“Ringer?” he says.

I nod. “Sergeant.”

His knees wobble. He falls into me and presses his face against my neck, and over his shoulder I can see Constance smiling at us. I’m not sure who’s holding up whom at this point.

Using the 12th System, I pour myself into him. Where there is pain, I give comfort. Where there is fear, hope. Where there is rage, peace.

“It’s all right,” I tell him, looking at Constance. “She’s with me. You’re safe now, Zombie. We’re all perfectly safe.”

My first lie to him. It won’t be the last.

30

HE PULLS OUT
of my arms. His eyes wander over the starlit fields, the road beyond, the bare, uplifted arms of the trees. He wants to ask but doesn’t want to, either. I tense, waiting for the question. Is it cruel to make him say it aloud?

“Teacup?”

I shake my head.

He nods. Lets out the deep breath he’s holding. Finding me was a kind of miracle, and when one miracle happens, you expect another.

“The little shit,” he mutters. Looking away. Fields, road, trees. “She snuck off on me, Ringer.” He gives me a hard look. “How?”

I say the first thing that pops into my head. “One of
them.
” I nod toward the pit. The second lie. “We’ve been dodging them all winter.” The third. It’s like I’ve jumped off a cliff—or pushed Zombie off. With each lie, he recedes from me, accelerating as we fall.

“But not Cup.” He steps over to the pit and stares into the mass of decomposing remains. “Is she in here?”

Constance jumps into the conversation; I’m not sure why. “No. We gave her a proper burial, Ben.”

Zombie looks at her. Glowering. “Who. The fuck. Are you?”

Her smile expands. “My name is Constance. Constance Pierce. I’m sorry. I know we’ve never met, but it feels like I know you. You’re practically all Marika talks about.”

He stares at her for a second. “Marika,” he echoes.

“That would be me,” I tell him.

Now staring at me. “You never told me your name was Marika.”

“You never asked.”

“I never . . . ?” He hiccups a humorless laugh and shakes his head. Then, without another word, he drops into the pit. I rush to the edge, thinking he’s lost his mind, gone Dorothy, that Teacup’s death was the final, tiny straw that broke his back. Why else would he jump in there? Then I see him grab his rifle, sling it over his shoulder, and crawl back to the edge. We lock our fingers around each other’s wrists and I pull him out.

“Where’re the others?” he demands.

“Others?” That loaded word.

“Survivors. Are they in the caves?”

I shake my head. “There are no other survivors, Zombie.”

“Just Marika and me,” Constance chirps. Why does she have to be so goddamned
cheerful
?

Zombie ignores her. “Dumbo’s been shot,” he informs me. “I left him in Urbana. Let’s go.”

He brushes past me and strides toward the road without looking back. Constance is watching me.

“My! Isn’t he a cutie?”

I tell her to fuck off.