Broken Lands

by Jonathan Maberry

“You won’t need to,” said Sam. “I have something else in mind.”

  PART FIFTEEN

  SOUTH TEXAS

  LAST DAY OF AUGUST

  NIGHT RUNNERS

  Night hath a thousand eyes.

  —JOHN LYLY

  74

  GUTSY SAT AT THE EMPTY kitchen table. Sombra sat with his head on her thigh, eyes closed as she scratched his neck.

  Night had fallen, but Gutsy didn’t think Captain Collins and her Rat Catchers would come for her this early. Urrea and Ford both urged her to sleep in their guest rooms, and Alethea said she could sneak Gutsy into the Cuddlys’ place. Gutsy thanked them and said no.

  “I’ll take my bedroll and bed down in the school library,” she said. “I doubt the soldiers will look for me there.” None of them liked it, but she could not be budged. Spider and Alethea had left minutes after the Chess Players. Each of them had gone home, with a loose agreement to meet again tomorrow to decide what to do.

  Now the house was quiet as a tomb, as still as death, as cold as her own heart. The weight of everything was too much. The Night Army. The Raggedy Man. The lab and the base. All of it. Too much to bear, and Gutsy felt like she was cracking and crumbling beneath it.

  They are still connected to all five senses. They hear, smell, taste, feel, and see everything, but they are unable to exert any control over the physical body.

  That was what Karen had said. It had been hard to hear at the time, but there was so much coming at her that the edge of it was blunted. Now, here, in the absolute, unbearable quiet of her empty house, the truth of it cut her and left her to bleed.

  “Mama . . . ,” she breathed.

  She almost couldn’t bear to close her eyes for fear of being back in her bedroom, with Mama lumbering toward her, clawing at her with dead hands, snapping at her. Gutsy had looked into those empty eyes and seen nothing.

  Or had she?

  Had there been the tiniest flicker?

  Was that Mama in there, screaming for her daughter to run? To fight? To forgive her? To release her?

  Gutsy suddenly caved forward, clutching her stomach as if actually stabbed. Was that Mama in there? Screaming? Terrified? Aware that she was dead? Feeling herself begin to decompose?

  Oh God.

  Please, don’t let that be true.

  Karen said it, though. The Rat Catchers and the doctors believed it. Sending Mama back had been part of an experiment of some obscene kind.

  Before they left, Spider and Alethea had clung to her, weeping, trying to tell her that it wasn’t true. Alethea could usually tell a good lie, but not tonight. Spider was never able to manage it. So Gutsy had to comfort them, help them lift their own pain and carry it out of the house.

  Everyone was gone now but Gutsy and the coydog. No one had been able to suggest a plan. Mr. Ford said that they needed time to digest, to consider.

  Sure. Whatever. She was glad they’d left.

  And yet the house was so empty without them. The windup clock on the wall sounded wrong and Gutsy glanced at it, seeing the second hand tick, pause, tick, tremble, stop. She knew that it was only because she hadn’t wound the spring, but it felt like a message. It was the universe telling her that there was no time left. Or, maybe, that her own time had run out. That wasn’t exactly the same thing, but maybe both things were happening at the same time.

  Gutsy looked slowly around the kitchen, down the hall, out through the window into the yard. This was the only place she had ever lived; it was home. Her home. Mama’s home.

  Past tense.

  “Mama,” begged Gutsy as she slid from her chair onto the floor, “help me.”

  But Mama was gone and Gutsy could not smell her, feel her, sense her. She couldn’t even sense her own energy here. It made the house feel like those old dead batteries in all those rusting cars. Empty.

  As useless as a stopped clock.

  75

  “A HORSE?” SAID LEDGER, STARING at the huge animal that stood in front of the cabin. It was as battle-scarred as the dog and the two soldiers, but it tossed its head and gave a healthy whinny.

  “Peaches is a good girl,” said Sam.

  Ledger laughed. “Peaches? You want us to go riding into battle on a horse named Peaches?”

  “I didn’t name her.”

  “Who did?”

  “The teenage girl who used to own her.”

  Ledger met his eyes but did not ask the obvious question. If the horse was here and the teenage girl was not, then the answer was equally obvious.

  “I put out feed for her, but mostly I let her run wild. She always comes when I call, though.” He cut a look at Ledger. “Can you ride?”

  “After a fashion. I guess. Maybe. But what about you?”

  “I’ll run.”

  “You’re nearly as old as I am and this New Alamo is how many miles away?”

  Sam shrugged. “If you have a better plan, Joe, I’m all ears.”

  Ledger did not have a better plan. He studied the horse, who glared down at him with a rolling eye.

  “I don’t think she likes me.”

  Sam shrugged. “She’s a good judge of character.”

  Grimm gave a deep whuff.

  Ledger scowled and shot a harsh look at Grimm. “You can keep your opinions to yourself, fleabag.”

  It took some doing to get Ledger into the saddle, which was designed for a petite teenager and not a big man who was over six feet tall and better than two hundred pounds. Ledger squirmed around trying to find a comfortable position.

  “There are parts of me that are going to hate this,” he complained.

  “Would you prefer I rig a new saddle out of fluffy pillows? And, do you want me to cut some leafy branches and fan you while I run?”

  “Would you? That would be just swell.”

  Sam shook his head as he checked the straps and tugged the saddle blanket down to protect the horse. He created saddlebags out of two battered old backpacks connected by belts and slung them behind Joe. Water, food, and lots of ammunition. Then Sam trotted back inside and returned with two items that made Ledger whistle in appreciation.

  One was Sam’s military sniper rifle. Not his original one, but a top-quality gun picked up along the way. The other was a katana with a gleaming lacquered black scabbard, hand-carved fittings, and silk cord tied in decorative knots. Sam held the sword for a while, took a breath, and handed it to Ledger. The old soldier gave a small bow as he received it, and bent to examine the scabbard and the tsuba—the round hand guard—as well as the various “furniture,” or fittings.

  “This looks old,” he said appreciatively. “Real old.”

  “It is old,” said Sam, “and it’s one of the best swords ever made. Work on it began in 1669, and it was finished in 1670 by Nagasone Kotetsu.”

  Ledger gaped at him. “He was one of the greatest sword makers of the samurai era.”

  “He was the greatest.”

  “How on earth did you get this?”

  “Look at the inscription on the blade. You were always good with languages; can you still read it?”

  Joe angled the blade so he could read the delicate words the sword maker had inscribed centuries before. He read them aloud, translating as he did so. “ ‘To Ichiro Imura. May your family name endure.’ ” There was a signature and seal below it. “ ‘Tokugawa Tsunayoshi, fifth shogun of the Tokugawa dynasty.’ ”

  “It was presented to my ancestor,” said Sam, “after a great battle.”

  “How do you even have this?”

  “It was in my apartment in Baltimore,” said Sam. “I got there a month after everything fell apart. It’s the only thing I have left from my family. I’ve . . . used it since. Many, many times.”

  “I can’t take this, Sam,” protested Ledger. “Give me a rifle. You should keep this.”

  “It’s not a gift, Joe,” said Sam, “it’s a loan. You told me that I have a brother—Benny. You told me he’s been studying kenjutsu, that Tom was training
him to be a samurai. You told me how he saved all those people from the Night Church. Well . . . if one of us survives this, and whichever one survives, that sword needs to be given to Benny. It’s his legacy. It has a name, Atarashī Yoake.”

  “New Dawn,” murmured Joe. “Yeah, that fits. Or at least I hope it fits. But, man . . . I can’t accept this.”

  “You’re a samurai too, Joe,” said Sam firmly. “You’ve been family to me and you’ve been family to Benny. You carry it for now. And, not to be corny, but I ask that you use it with honor.”

  Ledger smiled. “That is the least corny thing I’ve ever heard, brother.”

  They nodded to each other. Grimm barked loud enough to frighten the monkeys from the trees.

  Ledger untied the silk cord, slung the ancient weapon across his broad back, and tied it firmly in place.

  “Let’s go hunting,” he said.

  Sam didn’t answer. Instead he slapped Peaches on the rump and then ran to catch up with the bolting horse. Grimm barked again and gave chase.

  76

  LATER.

  Much later, Gutsy thought back to what Mr. Urrea had said as he and Ford were leaving. He gave her a sad, concerned smile.

  “Gutsy,” he said quietly so that only she could hear, “I should probably be talking you out of doing anything about this.”

  “You can’t,” she said.

  “I know. Even so, I feel like even discussing the possibility of doing anything is enabling questionable behavior. Your plan—if I can call it that—is dangerous and possibly even suicidal.”

  “I gave you all a chance to come up with a better one,” she said.

  “Not having a better one doesn’t make this a good one.”

  “I’m going to do something,” she said with a shrug. “Don’t know what it is yet, but you can’t talk me out of it.”

  “I know,” he repeated, then sighed. “I would love to say that you’re too young to be doing what you’re going to do. And you are. But not really. War doesn’t respect age. Children have died in war as victims and died as soldiers. I know you’re fifteen and smart, and I know you’re tougher than anyone I’ve ever known, but you are still so young. You should be allowed to grow up without knowing what horror is, or without seeing or causing bloodshed. That’s what would happen in a fairy tale, but . . .”

  “I read a lot of fairy tales, Mr. Urrea,” she said. “The old ones, in the books you gave me. Children weren’t safe in them, either. I don’t think we kids were ever safe.”

  “You should be,” said Urrea.

  She patted his chest. “This is the real world, and I don’t believe in happy endings.”

  Pain lanced through his eyes. “That is the saddest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  He left, shaking his head, looking even older than his years. That was an hour ago. Since then Gutsy had worked through a lot of different ideas, refining the admittedly bad idea she’d presented to her friends, discarding other ideas one after another as unworkable, unsafe, unwise, or downright crazy. The one idea left in her mind was the craziest of all, but it persisted. She stood up. It was full dark outside, but there was a brilliant moon in the sky. Plenty to see by.

  That was good. She could use that.

  “I can’t wait until tomorrow,” she told Sombra. “I don’t want to tell them, either. They’d try to stop me. Stop us.”

  Sombra wagged his tail.

  Gutsy changed into her darkest pair of jeans, a black T-shirt, and a navy-blue vest. Black socks and sneakers, too. She filled the pockets with items from the rows of mason jars mounted floor to ceiling in her bedroom. Spools of wire, matches, water-purifying tablets, first aid stuff, small folding tools, and more. The bottom drawer of her dresser had dozens of different knives in it, ranging from boning knives for fishing to deadly fighting knives scavenged from long-dead soldiers. Gutsy strapped two different-size fighting knives to her belt and slipped a folding lock-knife into a pocket. She had no firearms and wasn’t a fan of them anyway. Too noisy. In the end, she opted for a twelve-and-three-quarters-inch crowbar that weighed a little over a pound. Very tough, but light enough to swing fast. It was useful as a tool and a weapon. She slid it through her belt.

  After patting herself down to double-check that she had everything she needed, Gutsy went to the kitchen, filled a canteen, and put that, along with some jerky and a bag of nuts, into a backpack, and padded them with a waterproof nylon poncho for warmth and in case it rained. The last thing she took was the field hockey stick from the umbrella stand. It was sturdy and dangerous.

  Then she paused and looked down the hallway toward the closed door to Mama’s old room. Empty now too. It would always be empty. Even in the unlikely event that Gutsy came back here, even if she used that room for something else—a workroom, maybe, or storage—it would always be Mama’s room, and it would always be empty of her. The heartache, which simmered constantly beneath the surface, threatened to bubble up, and Gutsy almost stopped. And stayed. It was still possible.

  Maybe.

  That lie tugged at her, wanting her to believe it. Gutsy felt herself leaning toward it, needing to believe that everyone would be okay, that this was silly, that she could wish things back to the way they had been because accepting the truth was just too big.

  But she shook her head. Even the most appealing lie can never be made real by wishing it so. That was how people broke themselves. Maybe Karen believed a lie because she had her daughter to think of. Maybe she had to. Maybe some of the town council believed they were doing what was best for everyone. That was the lie—or maybe warped truth was more accurate—the scientists in the lab told the soldiers. How many of them knew the real truth? How many of them believed the adjusted truth because it was the only way they could survive emotionally?

  Did Mama know the truth and accept a lie in order to protect Gutsy?

  The memory of her words came back harder than ever. Mama had known something. How much she’d known was uncertain, but Gutsy had to accept the truth that Mama knew about the Rat Catchers. It made her feel sorry for how she’d treated Karen. How many mothers—and fathers—in New Alamo knew the truth and lived a lie in order to keep their children safe?

  Even the Chess Players had known something was going on.

  Everyone seemed to know something except her. No . . . except the kids. The little ones and the teenagers like her and her friends. Was that how it always was? Did parents hide harsh truths from their children and in doing so accept injuries and shackles and pain? Gutsy thought back to the things she’d learned in history classes. People living in fear, living in war-torn countries. How, after all, had parents felt during the Second World War and the Vietnam War all those years ago, knowing that when their sons came of age the draft would be waiting to whisk them away? What lies had Jewish mothers been forced to tell their children while boarding the trains to the death camps? How had Mama’s parents rocked her to sleep when she was little, knowing that at any minute immigration police could kick their door in and send them back to poverty and starvation?

  How?

  How was any of it possible? How could anyone bear it?

  Gutsy thought about what she would do if she ever became a mother herself. The world was a horror show. If she held a child in her arms while dead hands beat on the door, what lies would she be willing to tell to make it all okay?

  It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

  “It’s the way it is,” she said out loud. Her voice sounded loud and hollow and false in the empty house. And even though those words were true, she realized she’d said them to convince herself of a lie. That lie was so subtle, so tricky. By saying that things were the way they were, by trying to stand on solid logical ground, Gutsy was trying to build a case for herself—Miss Practical—to be able to deal with whatever.

  Lies were sneaky like that.

  Sombra whined softly, needing comfort. Like a child who did not know the truth. And yet as Gutsy knelt to pet him, she felt the sca
rs of tooth and whip. Sombra knew. But, like her, he didn’t want to know. Not really.

  Not unless he could actually, truly do something about it.

  “I don’t think we’re ever coming back here,” said Gutsy to the house. Sombra opened his eyes and looked up at her. She bent and kissed him and he licked her nose. It made her laugh, but the laugh was thin and fragile and the empty room drained it away.

  Gutsy wasn’t taking Gordo and the wagon, so that would simplify things. She knew a dozen sneaky ways to get through the walls, and at least three of those would work for Sombra as well.

  Fine.

  “Come on, boy,” she said, and Sombra trotted over. “Let’s go hunting.”

  The dog wagged his tail.

  Gutsy and Sombra went out of the house by the back door, took a cautious route through back alleys to the stables, and slipped inside unseen. It was dark in there and she had to search by feel, but there in the back of the wagon was the leather collar she’d removed from Sombra. She held the collar out to Sombra, who was nearly invisible in the darkness.

  “Find them,” said Gutsy.

  Sombra’s response was a low growl of nasty intent. His tail wagged with excitement.

  Gutsy and the coydog left the barn and ghosted their way to Cargo Town, slipped through one of the hidden exits, and were gone into the Broken Lands.

  77

  ALETHEA STOOD IN HER DARKENED bedroom, with Spider beside her, looking out at the moonlight. The view from the third-story room looked out over street upon street of the single-story residences that were identical to where Gutsy lived. Beyond those was the high, lumpy expanse of the wall. Spider had once counted all the 16,911 cars used to build the wall. In its way, that wall was one of the most incredible feats of engineering in human history. No mechanized cranes. It had been built by ingenuity and sheer brute strength, by careful planning and genuine cooperation.

  Since the completion of the wall, a handful of guards had been able to protect the town against the shamblers, mutated variations, and even some wild animals. It had withstood every attack, and the people in town had always felt safe.