Broken Lands

by Jonathan Maberry

  “But there was a fight the next time.”

  “Which means what?”

  She thought about it. “Different guards. The first night it was Trey Williams and Buffy Howell on the rear gate. Karen Peak said that they hadn’t reported any problems. But the other night it was Jimmy Quiñones and Roberto Cantu. They both got hurt, but nothing happened to Trey and Buffy.”

  “And that’s something you know but can’t prove,” said Ford. “Logic and supposition don’t always come with evidence.”

  “Wish they did,” said Urrea with a sigh. “Now, as for why the Rat Catchers attacked Roberto and Jimmy—we can only guess. You reburied your mother. Maybe that upset their plans, or upset some kind of timetable. They took a risk in bringing her back home, even though it meant having to brutalize the guards.”

  “Why, though?”

  “Ask yourself the same question,” said Ford. “You told us what the soldiers said. They wondered if Mama had told you something.”

  “She was already dead.”

  “Yes, she was,” said Ford, his eyes glittering with strange lights. “So what does that suggest?”

  “It doesn’t . . .” She stopped. One of the things the Chess Players always stressed in their classes was to avoid knee-jerk reactions. Only considered opinions mattered. She cut a look at one of the many small signs framed on the walls around the classroom. THINK BEFORE YOU SPEAK. Gutsy was aware of them watching her, and of them following her line of sight. Both old men nodded. “They did something to Mama,” she said after a while.

  “Yes.”

  “They made her sick. She died because of it. I don’t know how. And I don’t understand why she didn’t spread it. Tuberculosis is so contagious and, sure, we all took precautions once we knew what it was, but before that . . . How come it didn’t spread at the hospital and all through the town?”

  “Very good questions,” said Ford.

  Urrea frowned. “There are all kinds of mutant strains of diseases. Maybe this was one that wasn’t easy to catch. Just because Mama caught it doesn’t mean it’s something that could have spread quickly.”

  Ford gave him a pitying look. “So, after everything we’ve seen you’re erring on the side of a best case scenario? You’ve been out in the sun too long.”

  But Urrea stood firm. “No, it has to be something like that otherwise Gutsy would be correct, it would have killed half the town. And, don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying this was a natural mutation.” He studied Gutsy.

  She thought about it some more, then shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. I mean, if these people just wanted to kill her, there are a lot of easier ways. They could have come in on a night when the right guards were working and killed her while she slept. Could have killed both of us.”

  The Chess Players nodded.

  “So . . . maybe killing her wasn’t the point,” said Gutsy slowly, pushing past her heartache and the other emotions that kept wanting to derail her train of logic. “They brought her back . . . brought her back. Twice. If they wanted her to kill me, they could have done it easier. So that can’t be it.” She chewed her lip as she fought to recall the exact words spoken beside her mother’s grave.

  Do you think she told her anything after we dug her up?

  After.

  Gutsy grabbed Mr. Urrea’s wrist. “They did something to her,” she gasped. “They kept bringing her back because they thought . . . they thought . . .” She could not bring herself to say it.

  So Mr. Ford did. “Gutsy, I think these people did something to your mother that they thought would reawaken her dead brain. Something that would bring at least that part of her back to life.”

  Gutsy looked from one to the other and back again. “But . . . why?”

  “It’s all about finding a cure,” he said. “It’s always been about that.”

  “That’s not a cure! She was a monster.”

  “If it worked,” said Urrea gently, “if Mama had been able to talk with you, if she’d known you, then maybe she would not have attacked you. Maybe that’s the whole point, Gutsy, to find a way to stop the unthinking aggression of los muertos.”

  “And why dig up all those bodies in the cemetery?” asked Gutsy. “Why steal the dead?”

  Neither of them had an answer to that.

  The three of them sat there with the horror of it all surrounding them. To Gutsy it was as if the classroom was filled with ghosts. Maybe Mama’s ghost too. All trying to speak to her, to tell her dark secrets. To tell her truths that were wrapped in broken glass and barbed wire.

  After a while, Urrea sighed and said, “As far as Ford and I figure, at least half the town guards are in on it—whatever this actually is. And probably some key members of the town council, too. Otherwise more action would have been taken. We’ve seen how the council reacts to rumors about the hidden lab. They downplay any rumors very quickly. Far too quickly, in my opinion. We’ve thought they were trying a little too hard to dispel those rumors, and there’s no good reason why they should bother, unless they’re involved.”

  “So you’re going to need to be very careful about who you talk to in town,” said Ford.

  “Is there anyone we can actually trust?” asked Gutsy.

  They took a long time with that. “Well . . . us,” said Ford.

  “Your friends, Spider and Alethea,” added Urrea. “As long as you think they can keep their mouths shut.”

  “They can.”

  “Would you risk your life on that?”

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation. The Chess Players nodded.

  Ford shook his head. “Offhand, I don’t know how many others I would trust.”

  “Trust is hard to come by in this world,” admitted Urrea sadly.

  “That makes three teenagers, a scruffy dog, and two scruffier old men,” said Ford. “Hardly what I would call a force to be reckoned with.”

  “It’s what we have,” said Urrea.

  Gutsy kicked the desk hard enough to move it six inches. “What do we do about it, though?”

  “You shouldn’t do anything,” said Ford. “You’re fifteen and you’re likely to get hurt. Or worse.”

  She gave him such a withering look that he held up his hands in surrender.

  “Oooo-kay,” he said slowly, “can you at least promise us you’ll be smart and careful?”

  Gutsy nodded. “Guess I’m going to have to be. Otherwise they’ll stop me, and I don’t want to be stopped. They killed my mother. They disrespected her. They tried to use her to kill me. Or hurt me. Or something. Whatever it was, whatever they meant to do, it was cruel and . . . and . . .”

  “The word you’re looking for,” said Ford quietly, “is evil.”

  Gutsy looked at him and at the word, as if it hung burning in the air.

  “Evil,” she said, tasting that word. It was bitter and wrong and didn’t fit comfortably in her mouth; and yet she knew it was exactly the right word. A thought suddenly occurred to her, and she knelt and held out a hand for Sombra, who came over and allowed her to scratch his head. She felt herself smile one of those smiles that made people flinch.

  “What is it?” asked Ford. “You have an idea. I can see it.”

  “You won’t like it.”

  “Would you like a comprehensive list of all the things I don’t like?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “What’s your idea?” Urrea asked her.

  Gutsy leaned her head forward and touched her brow to the coydog’s. He allowed it and then leaned in. The way Gordo so often did. Without breaking contact, Gutsy said, “When we were in the cemetery last night, Sombra wanted to attack those soldiers. He was afraid of them, but he wanted to hurt them too. I think he knows them. I think maybe he used to belong to one of them.”

  “I don’t like where this is going,” said Ford.

  Gutsy stroked Sombra’s smoky fur. “I bet he knows how to find them.”

  “That’s insane,” gasped Urrea.

  “Maybe.”r />
  “You’ll get killed.”

  “Maybe I won’t.”

  “They’ll take you. Arrest you. Make you disappear,” warned Ford.

  “Only if they see me coming,” she said. “Only if they can catch me.”

  “You’re fifteen!”

  “Stop saying that. They didn’t care that I’m fifteen when they brought my mother back to my house. Twice. Besides, maybe they think my being fifteen means I’m just a kid, that I can’t do anything. That I’m not a threat to them.” She paused. “They’re wrong about all of that. They won’t think I’ll come after them. They’d never think that for a moment. They’ll try and come for me instead.”

  The Chess Players kept protesting.

  Gutsy fell silent but kept smiling.

  Sombra growled, low in his throat. As if he understood. As if he approved.

  60

  GUTSY TALKED WITH THE CHESS players for a while longer, mostly building a list of people in town they thought might have some knowledge of who the Rat Catchers were, or who had spoken out in the past about the base.

  Then she left them and slipped quietly out of the building with Sombra, keeping to the shadows. Fear seemed to crouch on her back like a parasite, though. Her heart kept hammering and did not want to settle down, and chilly fear sweat dampened her clothes. Every face she saw seemed to be turned toward her with suspicious, guilty eyes. Every mouth seemed to be set in a sneer, every glance was an accusation. It irritated her to feel that kind of paranoia, because it distorted her perceptions. Knowing that did nothing at all to help shake the feeling that she was in a town filled with potential enemies.

  There were spies in town. There were scientists in a secret lab somewhere. There were soldiers in a hidden base. And there were insane wolf packs of infected killers trying to build an army of living dead.

  Gutsy wanted to find a rock and crawl under it.

  Gutsy wanted to find the people who did this and kill them.

  Gutsy wanted her mama to be there to make it all okay again.

  She walked on, feeling the world fracture a little more with every step.

  Her route back home was a wandering one, allowing her to surreptitiously check to see if someone was trailing her. If they were, they were better at it than she was at spotting it. Sombra didn’t bark, whine, or growl, however, so that was a comfort.

  Not having Spider or Alethea to talk to hurt.

  “Mama,” murmured Gutsy, “why’d you have to go away?”

  Sombra whined softly and leaned against her for a moment as they walked. Once more Gutsy wondered if Mama had somehow sent the coydog to her. It was a silly thought, she knew, but it seemed impossible to shake.

  It spooked her and it felt good in nearly equal measures.

  She passed the Chung house and flinched when she saw a familiar figure standing in the yard, hanging freshly washed clothes. The skirt Alice was pinning to the line was no longer smeared with horse manure. The torn blouse was nowhere in sight. As if sensing her approach, Alice lowered her arms and turned. She was pretty and slim, with hair as black and glossy as a crow’s wing. As black as Gutsy’s own, though longer. Some people in town thought Alice was Mexican with strong Native American blood, which wasn’t that much of a stretch. The Asian influence in the Indios was evident in a lot of people Gutsy knew. She even had a bit of it herself. Mr. Urrea had talked about what he called the “global genetic melting pot” that was the Americas. However, Gutsy’s skin took a deeper tan and Alice’s face was pale. And lovely. Always so lovely. She’d even looked pretty when she was mad.

  Gutsy stopped by the small wooden fence. Alice stood where she was, a clothespin in one hand and a basket of laundry at her feet.

  “Hey,” said Gutsy. Not the world’s most clever opening, but it was what she had.

  There was a beat before Alice said, “Hey.”

  And a whole bunch more beats as Gutsy sorted through a thousand possible things to say, ranging from clever to apologetic. All them sounded lame.

  “Earlier . . . ,” she began.

  Alice blinked once. Very slowly. Like a cat.

  “You’re never clumsy,” she said.

  “Um . . . what?”

  “You,” said Alice, “you’re always quick on your feet. In gym class, in lacrosse practice. Even when we were little and everyone was playing living and dead in the school yard. I never once saw you trip or crash into anyone.”

  Living and dead was a game of tag in which the person chasing everyone pretended to bite whoever he—or she—caught. Kind of gross, looking back on it, but fun at the time.

  “I . . . um . . . okay . . . ,” Gutsy said, definitely tripping now.

  “But today you bump into me so hard you knock me down into horse poop.”

  Gutsy looked down at her shoes. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “It . . . it was an accident.”

  Alice dropped the clothespin into the laundry basket and walked slowly over to the fence. She smelled of soap and flowers.

  “Look at me,” said Alice.

  It took a lot, but Gutsy did.

  “Remember back in third grade, when I always had my hair in braids?” asked Alice. Gutsy nodded. “Do you remember why I stopped braiding my hair?”

  “No.”

  Alice said, “Bobby McNeal was always pulling my braids. He was always sticking stuff into them because he sat behind me. Feathers, straw, dandelions.” Gutsy nodded again. “He was always playing tricks like that. Pretending to sneeze on me and tossing cooked pasta on my blouse like it was a booger. Putting snails in my shoes. He did all kinds of stuff when we were little. Do you know why?”

  “Bobby McNeal’s a jerk.”

  “No,” said Alice, “he’s not. Not really.”

  “He was bullying you, Alice. There’s nothing cute about that.”

  Alice frowned. “Look, he wasn’t really trying to be a jerk in third grade. He was trying to say something and didn’t know how.”

  Gutsy stared at her. “Say what? That boys can do whatever they want because they’re stronger and girls just have to take it?”

  “No,” insisted Alice, getting flustered. “Bobby really liked me. He still does, I guess. He wants me to go to the fall dance next month. He doesn’t mess with my hair or put snails in my shoes anymore. And he apologized, like, a thousand times for doing it back then.”

  “Doesn’t make it right.”

  “Well . . . no. But I think he gets that now.”

  “Maybe,” said Gutsy dubiously, “but he’s still trying to get you to notice him.”

  “Sure, Guts, but he’s not doing anything like he used to. People can change.”

  Gutsy gave a reluctant shrug. “Maybe. Why’d you bring him up? He and I aren’t even friends.”

  “I brought it up because back then, he was hitting on me the wrong way because he was going through a lot of bad stuff. Don’t forget, his dad was killed by shamblers in the summer before third grade. And his uncle, too. Bobby was all screwed up.”

  “So . . . ?”

  Alice put her hands on the edge of the fence. She seemed to be standing very close.

  “Look,” she said, “I know your mom just died. That’s horrible. My dad died two years ago and I’m still not over it. I think about him every night. I dream about talking with him and sitting in the living room sewing side by side, talking about stuff. About anything, really. Just being together. I miss him so bad. So I know what you’re going through. And while I was washing my clothes, I kept wondering if that’s what’s made you weird lately. If that’s why you walked into me like your head was totally somewhere else.”

  “I . . .”

  “But,” said Alice, leaning a few inches closer, “if you want to get my attention, maybe try it some other way.”

  “What?”

  Alice smiled. “Flowers are nice,” she said, “and they smell better than horse poop.”

  “I—I—”

  Alice looked up and down the street, then darted forward
and kissed Gutsy. It was very, very quick. It was on the lips. And then she turned and walked back to her laundry and did not so much as glance back in Gutsy’s direction.

  Gutsy had no idea how long she stood there.

  She had no idea how she even got home.

  Floated, maybe . . . because Gutsy did not remember her feet touching the ground at all.

  61

  “WHAT ARE YOU SMILING ABOUT?” asked spider as he and Alethea came up her garden path.

  “Smiling?” asked Gutsy. “Who’s smiling?”

  “You are,” said Alethea, scowling at her.

  “Am I?”

  Her friends plunked down on chairs on either side of her. They looked exhausted and smelled like sweat and vegetables. Even the black widows on Spider’s shirt looked limp and listless.

  “We have to be back no later than an hour after sunset,” Alethea said. “And we have double chores all week.”

  “Sorry,” said Gutsy, meaning it. They were in trouble because of helping her. She didn’t remind them that they did not have to stay out all night. That would be a slap in their faces, because they’d done it out of friendship and love.

  They all sat in silence for a while, looking down the street, looking at nothing. Looking inward, really. Spider reached down to pet Sombra, and the coydog stood and laid his head on Spider’s thigh, eyes closed, tail wagging back and forth very slowly. In another world, in another time of her life, this would have been a nice moment. Maybe, she mused, it was like the eye of a hurricane. Calm for as long as it lasted, but there was destruction behind and ahead.

  Keeping her voice quiet so only they could hear, she said, “I talked to the Chess Players.”

  “Oh?” asked Alethea.

  “They know about the Rat Catchers.”

  “Oh,” she grunted.

  Gutsy told them everything; and as she did, the happiness of talking to Alice melted away and left her with the cold reality of the Rat Catchers, the lab, the base, and the Night Army. Her friends listened without comment, but their mouths slowly fell open and their eyes bulged wide. Finally another silence settled over them as Alethea and Spider digested the details.

  Spider eventually said, “Whoa.”