Broken Lands

by Jonathan Maberry

  The classrooms used by Mr. Ford and Mr. Urrea were on the second floor, and Gutsy moved like a silent ghost along the halls and up the stairs. The coydog’s nails made small sounds on the marble floors and stone steps. She cut him a look halfway up the stairs and was surprised to see that he was climbing easily. His limp had gradually gone away and he no longer moved as if he was pushing through walls of pain. She had no idea how fast dogs healed, but Sombra seemed to have a core of strength and vitality. Nice.

  At the top of the stairs she paused again, listening once more. Gutsy was seldom in a hurry and tried to never move faster than her ability to study and analyze her surroundings. That had kept her safe many times out in the Broken Lands. That natural caution, amped up by acquired knowledge and lots of practice, kept her from running afoul of shamblers, wolf packs, and other dangers. It was why she was alive when some other scavengers were either bones in the weeds or walking corpses.

  Now, more than ever, she knew that caution was crucial. The Rat Catchers were cautious too. Smart, organized, and dangerous. She had to be all that and more.

  A door stood open down the hall, and lamplight painted a yellow oblong on the floor. Mr. Ford’s classroom. She drew her knife, and at the sight of it Sombra changed his body language, hunching his shoulders and lowering his head as if stalking a wild rabbit. Or getting ready for a fight. Moving with total silence now, they crept closer.

  Gutsy stopped at the doorway and knelt to peer around the frame. Mr. Ford sat in his chair behind the desk, and Mr. Urrea, leaning on his cane, stood by the blackboard. They were deep in a quiet conversation. Gutsy listened, straining to hear what they were saying, but she couldn’t quite make it out.

  The old men were alone in there, so Gutsy rose, slid her knife back into its sheath, took a breath and exhaled it, then stepped into the room.

  The conversation died as first Ford and then Urrea turned toward her.

  “Miss Gomez,” said Urrea quietly, “I guess you’d better come in.”

  She held her ground. “There’s some stuff I need to know. About my mama. About what happened in town. About something that happened out at the cemetery.”

  “Yes,” said Ford. “And I think it’s time we talked about what’s really going on around here.”

  Gutsy and the coydog walked across the classroom and stopped in front of the desk. She placed her palms on the edge and leaned forward, glaring at the old men.

  “You know what’s going on?” she asked coldly.

  They exchanged a look. Urrea gave Ford the tiniest of nods.

  “Yes,” said Ford. “But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “You’re not going to like it,” said Ford.

  “Tell me anyway,” she said.

  PART TEN

  VALLEY STATE PRISON

  CHOWCHILLA, CALIFORNIA

  ONE WEEK EARLIER

  DIRTY WORK

  It is the part of a good man

  to do great and noble deeds,

  though he risks everything.

  —PLUTARCH

  49

  IT WAS A LABOR ASSIGNED in hell and carried out with the diligence of the damned.

  The prison had huge tanks of water, so there was no shortage for washing. But even the harshest soaps and torrents of water could not sponge away the things they had done that day.

  It had all been done according to a strange and nearly silent routine of action, and though they worked in pairs, there was no conversation except for what was needed in the moment.

  “Open the door.”

  “Here’s the key.”

  “He’s done.”

  Like that.

  When it was done, they each drifted to the shower rooms to get clean. There were a lot of shower stalls and no one wanted to share. No one could look at anyone else.

  Alone in a far corner of the guards’ locker room, Benny stripped to the skin and spent the next half hour washing every inch of his body.

  Again and again.

  • • •

  Chong found Benny an hour later.

  “You need to get dressed,” said Chong.

  Benny looked away. Chong came in and sat down next to him. The floor had long since dried. Neither spoke for nearly five minutes.

  Then Benny said, “What if it’s like this in Asheville? What if Captain Ledger never even got there? What if he’s dead? What if they’re all dead?”

  Chong took his time before he said anything. “Y’know, man, all my life I’ve tried to steer away from looking at things as either black or white. There always seemed to be a third choice. A gray area, I guess, because in every case there was more information, additional details that had to be considered.”

  Benny snorted. “How’s that working out for you?”

  “Right now? Not all that good.” Chong sighed. “Look, we either go back to Reclamation or we go to Asheville. If we keep going . . . there might be more stuff like this.”

  “I—I can’t do this again,” said Benny. “I don’t think we should have done this. The zoms don’t care. They’re not in pain anymore. But I am. We are. This . . . really messed me up, dude. I’m not sure I want to . . .” He let the rest hang.

  Chong turned and looked at Benny. “You know I have to go, though, right? You get that?”

  Benny closed his eyes and said nothing.

  “While I was in the shower,” continued Chong, “I cooked up three different plans for me sneaking out with my quad and leaving some elaborate and heroic note about how you all should go back and let me do this alone. About how it wasn’t yours to do because I’m the one who’s sick. About you being needed back there a lot more than you needed to come with me on what’s probably a suicide mission.”

  “And . . . ?”

  Chong shrugged. “Truth is, I’m too scared to go alone. And I can’t go back home because all that would mean is me waiting to die, with all my friends hanging around like some death watch. Like being at my own funeral for ten whole months. That would suck.”

  “That would suck,” agreed Benny.

  “Sure, going to Asheville might be more of this kind of thing,” Chong said, waving his hands to indicate the entire prison, “but I still have to try.”

  After a long, long time, Benny nodded. “Have to try.”

  Chong cleared his throat. “Any chance I could talk you into putting on some clothes? I have enough problems in my life without seeing you naked.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who came into my shower and sat down.”

  “I’ll add that to the long list of things I will forever regret,” said Chong.

  They both burst out laughing even though it wasn’t all that funny.

  They laughed too loud and too long.

  Chong got to his feet and opened the door; then, without looking back, he recited a fragment of an old poem. “ ‘But I have promises to keep,’ ” he said softly, “ ‘and miles to go before I sleep.’ ”

  Benny got slowly and heavily to his feet, used the last bucket of water to rinse off the dried soap, toweled off, and got dressed. He walked over to where his kami katana stood leaning against a wall. He picked it up and held it out in front of him, supporting it horizontally with both hands, the way a samurai would. He bowed his head.

  Not bowing to the weapon, or even its potential. He wasn’t sure what he was bowing to. His eyes were dry and they burned, and his heart was a lifeless stone in his chest.

  Benny slung the long strap over his shoulder and angled the handle so that he could reach up and over and draw the weapon. Like he had done every day since Tom handed the sword to him with the very last of his life’s strength.

  The words Chong had recited seemed to echo in the air.

  But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.

  “Yeah,” said Benny to the empty room. Then he went to find his friends.

  50

  THEY ATE, SLEPT BADLY, AND woke in the cold light of morning, ready to go and needing to be
gone. As Benny helped prepare breakfast, he could feel the oppressive weight of the ugly place bearing down on him, as if it was becoming his prison. It made him feel claustrophobic. Memories of what they had done yesterday made him feel like a criminal.

  Over breakfast they studied the maps and made plans. The one highlight of the previous day had been the discovery of the locked armory. The key had been among those Riot had found, and when they opened the heavy steel door, they stared slack-jawed at what was inside. More weapons and equipment than they could ever use.

  “How come no one looted this stuff before?” wondered Chong.

  “Because people are stupid,” was Lilah’s gruff response. It was hard to argue with, because there were enough weapons and ammunition in there for a small army. Benny thought it was more likely that the plague had spread too fast inside the prison. It also suggested that the guards who worked here must have simply abandoned the place during First Night, maybe before the refugees ever got here. Most likely they went home to see to their loved ones and were washed away by the tidal surge of the Lucifer 113 infection.

  Whatever the reason, finding that armory made their mission to Asheville suddenly seem possible. Within half an hour they were all kitted out in black Kevlar limb pads, ballistic helmets, and vests that would stop a bullet and—Benny hoped—a bite. The carpet coats were an extra layer of protection to cover any areas left exposed—wrists, waists, and so on. It was all dreadfully hot and heavy, but at that moment Benny would have wrapped himself in cast iron because of what lay ahead of them. They debated whether to use the cadaverine as yet another bit of protection. Lilah and Riot argued against it, citing their limited supply. Benny, Nix, Chong, and Morgie overrode them, and they each smeared a little on their armor.

  They took as much as they could carry or cram into the quads. Riot and Morgie rounded up all the remaining food, too. Then they peered out through the cracked windows of the loading bay, where five of the six quads were stored. The sixth was way out in the field, mostly hidden by tall weeds and too many zoms.

  “Getting Benny’s bike’s not going to be easy,” observed Chong.

  “Nah,” said Morgie. When everyone glanced at him with expectant eyes, he said, “Those weeds are dry. We can use some fuel from in here, make a firebomb . . . the weeds will go right up and we’ll burn ’em out.”

  “What about my quad?” asked Benny.

  “We can—” began Morgie, but Riot cut him off.

  “Morgie,” she said caustically, “you are so dumb you could throw yourself on the floor and miss.”

  “Huh?”

  “The wind’s been blowing strong and it’s blowing north. You start a fire and it’ll march all the way to Reclamation and keep on going. You want to set fire to all of California?”

  Morgie flushed a deep red and kept his opinions to himself.

  Lilah tapped the glass with a finger. Despite her facade of toughness, Benny saw that she was back to biting her nails all the way down.

  “We fight our way through,” she said. “Four quads go off in different directions, heading to the road. Revving high to draw them. Riot takes Benny to his quad and waits while he gets it going. When the zoms clear off, Benny gets dropped and Riot gives cover until he’s mounted and has the engine on. That’s the plan.”

  It was not said as a suggestion, and everyone nodded. It was a scary plan, but a practical one.

  And that was what they did.

  As soon as the gear was loaded, five quad engines roared to life. Benny opened the door, then jumped back as the machines burst from the shadowy garage into the bright sunlight. Riot slowed to let him jump on. The line of quads tore across the weed-choked field. There were zoms out here, too, but only a dozen or so, and these were spread out. The five quads zoomed into the field, spreading out as they accelerated, drawing as many zoms away as they could while Benny tried to start his quad. The engine coughed and choked but did not catch.

  The quad was out of gas.

  51

  THE QUAD HAD BEEN LEFT running and had burned through its fuel before sputtering and dying out in the field.

  Riot skidded to a stop, hurried over, and pushed Benny out of the way. “Watch my back and don’t let me get bit.”

  Benny drew his sword and stood ready, but he kept glancing over his shoulder as Riot worked. Unlike the others, she was very familiar with the mechanics of the chunky machines, having used them while still part of the reaper army.

  She opened the lid of one of the hard-shell saddlebags on the back of the quad and removed the fuel tube beneath the tank to release air. She immediately began fueling from the spare tanker attached to the back of the quad. As soon as there was enough in the tank, she gave the throttle a couple of pumps, opening it all the way and closing the choke. Then she turned the key. The motor screeched in protest as if wanting to stay asleep. She tried again, and for a moment Benny thought it was going to start, but then it faded. Riot kept trying, and on the fifth try the sturdy little machine growled to life. The whole process seemed to take an hour, but he knew it was less than a minute. Time was as broken as the world. Riot kept working to adjust the choke to settle the engine into a normal rhythm.

  “You waiting for an engraved invitation?” she barked. “Or did you rub steak sauce all over yourself this morning?”

  “What . . . ?” Benny looked around and saw a whole bunch of zoms coming around the corner of the prison and shamble toward him. He ran to meet the ones in front and the sword wove a pattern of destruction that left five of them dead and two more crippled. Benny backpedaled until he was near the two quads again.

  They remounted and took off across the field, heading back to the road to where the others waited. Now that they were on the road again, Benny could feel the time burning off around him. If Captain Ledger was in danger when they’d set out from Reclamation, then he was probably long dead now.

  Regret was an ache that cracked his chest open.

  He gunned the engine and roared down the road.

  Interlude Five

  KICKAPOO CAVERN STATE PARK

  ONE WEEK AGO

  THEY SAT THERE. TWO GROWN men, scarred from lifetimes of battle. Both of them killers. Sitting in the mud, staring, tears running down their faces.

  “Joe . . . ?” said the hunter, his voice hushed to a whisper. “Are you . . . real?”

  The soldier grinned. “If you are, then I am.”

  “How? They said you were dead.”

  “Heard that about you, too, brother.”

  They sat there. Birds and monkeys chattered in the trees around them.

  “How are you here?” asked Sam.

  “Here, as in right here, right now? Or here at all?”

  “I don’t know. Either. Both.”

  Ledger sighed. “Yeah, well, that’s a long story. Short version? The world ended when I was off the clock. I was coming back from a job in Southeast Asia, and by the time I reached the States the devil was off the leash and everything was falling apart.”

  Sam nodded. “I know. I was in the middle of it. My team was sent into a quarantine zone in Stebbins County, Pennsylvania. A Cold War bioweapon had been released and—”

  “Lucifer 113.”

  “If you know about it already, then—”

  Ledger shook his head. “I know parts of it. Bits and pieces. I know Dr. Volker used the pathogen on a death-row prisoner. Homer Gibbon. Volker was psycho when it came to punishment for serial killers and wanted to make Gibbon suffer. His new version of Lucifer 113 was supposed to make Gibbon aware of his own body rotting in the coffin. Didn’t work out that way and Gibbon, he woke up hungry in some small-town mortuary. I got that much from the news. Some bozo reporter named Billy Trout was doing these field reports. ‘Live from the apocalypse.’ Stuff like that.”

  “Billy was a good guy,” said Sam. “A bit of a bleeding heart, but decent. He and his girlfriend—”

  “Dez Fox. Stebbins County Police Department.”

 
Sam punched the ground. “You do know the whole story.”

  “No, I don’t,” said Ledger. “I met Dez Fox and Billy Trout about six months after the outbreak. They’re the ones who told me you were dead. I helped them out of a jam. They had a convoy of school buses filled with little kids. Couple of your team were with them, heading down to Asheville.” He grinned and shook his head. “Guess the reports of your demise were a bit exaggerated.”

  “I was wearing body armor,” said Sam. “Kevlar limb pads, chest protector, ballistic helmet. I got buried under a bunch of the dead. By the time I crawled my way out, the buses were gone. I looked but never found them. Tell me they made it.”

  “Hope so,” said Ledger, “but I lost track of them. Heard some rumors, even followed some leads, but if they’re alive, I don’t know where.”

  “This is insane,” said Sam, shaking his head. He was still unsure whether this was even real. He hadn’t seen Joe Ledger in nearly twenty years. A long time ago, nearly three decades before, when Sam was in his early twenties, he’d been the sniper for Echo Team, one of the world’s most elite counterterrorism squads. They had taken down one terrorist group after another, trying to keep the world from falling apart. But then, five years after the last time Sam had seen his old team leader, the world had, indeed, fallen off its hinges.

  He and Ledger went back and forth, sharing histories, filling in a few blanks, leaving other parts unsaid or unknown. While they talked, Ledger retied the bandages on his leg. The wound was bad. Deep and ugly. It would need cleaning and stitches.

  “Hey,” said Ledger, “I don’t suppose you saw a big dog around here.”

  “Lots of stray dogs around, Joe.”

  “Not like this one. He’s an American mastiff. Two hundred and fifty pounds, wearing spiked armor and a helmet. Name’s Grimm, and me and him have some history. He was with me on the chopper and I pushed him out over a stream before we hit. Thought I saw him splash down. If it was a shallow stream, Grimm might be alive but hurt. If it was deep, he could have drowned with all that armor. Either way, I’d like to know.”