by M. D. Massey
As it turned out, the blade in the scabbard was definitely folded steel, probably dating from the 17th century. Strangely enough, it had been fitted in the metal guard and hilt of an NCO’s sword, rather than in a custom hilt as would be the case with an officer’s sword. Beyond that I couldn’t tell much about it, not without taking it apart and looking up the bladesmith’s marks in a reference book that likely no longer existed. But it had been well-cared for and was in very good condition. I tested the blade’s edge with my thumbnail; it was just as sharp as the day they’d pawned it.
It’d been years since I’d done gumdo, the Korean version of Japanese iaijutsu and kenjutsu, but I still remembered the basic drills and forms. As soon as we had time, I intended to dust them off. I walked out to the front of the shop with my booty, tucking it alongside my ruck and bedroll. Bobby strode up to check it out as soon as he saw what I’d found.
“Ooooh, Afro Samurai. Cool.” He looked at me, then looked over at Pancho across the shop. “You think we should feed him?”
I pursed my lips and screwed my mouth sideways with mock indecision. “I suppose, although I’d just as soon starve him to death. Give him some jerky and trail bread, and make sure he gets some water too. It’ll be a damn sight better than he treated the slaves they captured, and better treatment than he deserves.”
Bobby nodded. “Agreed, but we do need to keep him healthy so he can keep up once we get closer to downtown.” He paused and sniffed in very canine manner. “You think he’ll lead us into a trap?”
“Maybe, but that’s a risk we’ll have to take. Once we get his maps, though, it’ll be a lot harder for him to do us dirty. Which is why we need to get them tonight.”
Bobby was about to enquire further when we were interrupted by Gabby emerging from the back rooms of the pawn shop. She was carrying a fairly serviceable sharpening stone and a lawn mower blade in her hands, with a look on her face that dared anyone to challenge her.
Bobby looked at me and winked, then grunted in a low voice. “Unh-hum. French-fried potaters? I reckon I’ll have me some of the biguns. Uh-hum.”
I chuckled and shook my head. “It’s no use son, she’s never seen Slingblade.”
Gabby looked confused, and Bobby just looked disappointed. Then he perked up and raised an index finger. “Ah hah! All the more reason to do a DVD run.”
I gestured around the room like a carnival barker introducing a bearded woman to a crowd of hicks at the county fair. “Well hell, look around. There’s bound to be a ton of DVDs around here somewhere. Never knew a crackhead who wouldn’t try to pawn a DVD for a fix.”
Bobby’s eyes lit up, and he started rummaging around the shelves and detritus of the pawn shop’s former showroom in earnest. Gabby still looked confused, so I spoke up to let her know what he was doing. “Pre-War movie references. Bobby wants to expand your cultural horizons.”
Gabby rolled her eyes with all the derision an 11-year-old girl could muster. “He likes weird stuff, like these movies he calls ahn-ee-may.”
I nodded. “Cartoons.”
“Yeah, those things. And he likes to watch some stupid show called Scooby-Doo, with this dog that talks and a bunch of kids who are about as dumb as rocks. Moving drawings...creepy. All the monsters are fake on that show, too.” She shook her head in disgust. “It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Bobby chimed in from across the room as he rifled through some fallen ceiling tiles. “That’s the whole point of the show, the talking dog always saves the day. Duh.”
Gabby stuck her tongue out at him. “It’s still dumb. Everyone knows dogs can’t talk.”
Bobby poked his head up from behind a broken glass counter. “Um, hello? Werewolf boy, right here in front of you.”
“But it’s not the same! You’re a person who was turned into a werewolf, not a dog who suddenly learned to talk.”
Bobby raised a finger from behind the counter and waggled it at her. “Ah, but that’s what makes Scooby-Doo such a classic! The eponymous hero of the show, our intrepid dog wonder, shows the universal superiority of the canine species by uncovering clues that prove vital to solving each and every mystery. Without him, those pesky kids would’ve never uncovered a single evil plot.”
She turned to me and frowned. “There’s no arguing with him, is there?”
I shrugged and pointed at the objects in her hands. “What’s with the hunk of steel?”
She gave Bobby raspberries over her shoulder, and then turned to answer me. “It seems to be pretty decent steel, and flat enough so it wouldn’t require much grinding. I figured with a little work and some heat treating, it’d make a pretty decent blade.”
I nodded in approval. “You know, back before the War, in the Philippines bladesmiths would make swords and knives out of just about any decent steel they could get their hands on. Leaf springs from old cars seemed to be a favorite, as well as railroad spikes.” I rubbed my chin in thought and tried to remember a bit of info from my past. “I seem to recall a way to make a pretty decent wood-fired forge from bricks and clay. Maybe when we get through this we can start experimenting with forging new weapons. That way we won’t have to worry about losing ours or breaking them.”
Gabby nodded. “Sounds like fun! I’m in.” Then she looked over her shoulder at Bobby. “And maybe we can make a muzzle for the chachalaca back there, too.”
I laughed. A chachalaca is a particularly noisy bird commonly found in South Texas. It was a nickname that was perfectly suited to Teen Wolf.
Bobby hopped over the counter with an armload of DVDs. “First off, I ain’t no chupacabra. Those cats are plain crazy—not even werewolves mess with them. Second, check it out! I got Say Anything, Fast Times At Ridgemont High, The Toxic Avenger—a classic—Scarface, The Last Dragon—Bruce Leroy catchin’ bullets with his teeth? Oh, and this Bruce Lee flick, Enter The Dragon.”
I snatched Enter The Dragon from his hands. “Bobby, you just got off my shit list.”
Bobby faced perked up. “Oh really? Well then don’t mention it...” Suddenly his face scrunched up in confusion. “Wait a minute. I was on your shit list?”
That night Bobby and I snuck over to the YMCA building just after dark and reconnoitered it with as much stealth as possible. The punters were on high alert after the disappearance of Pancho the night before, and there were no festivities going on. Instead, they had armed guards posted at every entrance on the roof, and from what I could tell they were moving around enough to make it tough to approach unnoticed.
I tapped Bobby on the shoulder and motioned for him to follow. We backed off about 50 yards, taking shelter in an overgrown area between two buildings. Deaders tended to avoid thick undergrowth, so we’d be relatively safe from prying eyes there. I leaned in and whispered my plan.
He looked at me like I was crazy. “I don’t know, boss, it seems risky as hell. What if they decide to start taking pot shots?”
I shook my head. “Nope, not this close to the Corridor. We’re only a few miles from IH-35 and downtown, and there’s no way they want to attract much attention with this many deadheads and freaks around.” ‘Freaks’ was a general term I’d picked up from Bobby, which he used to describe all manner of paranormal creatures—werewolves not included, of course. “It’ll be safe, trust me.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m just saying, if you get killed on my watch, Gabby will never forgive me. And I do not want that girl pissed at me.”
I stifled a chuckle and patted him on the shoulder. “Bobby, you’re starting to learn the ways of dealing with the fairer sex. Just don’t get them mad in the first place.”
He smirked and tilted his head at the Y. “You sure you don’t want me going with you?”
“Nope, just stick to the plan. It’ll be safer that way, and I’ll be in and out before you know it.”
He still looked unconvinced. “Alright, I suppose I don’t have a choice. We’ll meet back here in 20 minutes. But if you don’t come out in 30, I’m g
oing to get Gabby and we’re coming in after you.”
“Fair enough. See you in 20.” I set my rifle down and most of my combat gear, save one pistol that I tucked into the back of my waistband, and my battlehawk, also concealed. I rubbed a bunch of dirt and mud on my face and hands and took off toward an area near the YMCA at a slow trot. Once I’d spotted what I was looking for, I stood up and trudged my way directly into them. My target was a small herd of deaders that were milling around between two buildings, about 40 yards from the main entrance of the Y. As I had suspected, they ignored me as I slowly walked among them, imitating their herky-jerky movements to blend in with the herd.
Soon I heard a loud noise come from the YMCA building, which naturally attracted a lot of attention from the deaders. They began moaning and carrying on, and shuffling more or less in that direction. As planned, Bobby had waited until I was among the deader herd, then snuck within range and chunked a large fist-sized rock at an old car that had been left near the entrance. The noise that the rock made as it bounced off the fender was louder than I anticipated, and likely to bring deaders in from half a mile around. I silently hoped that I wouldn’t be overrun by them during my escape.
As the herd shuffled up to the front of the YMCA, I could see two guards on top of the building looking around to investigate the noise. One had a rifle up and scanned the area through his sights. As he saw the first few Z’s come into the outer glow of their watchfires, he raised his rifle and sighted in on one in the lead. I held my breath until his partner saw what he was doing and stopped him.
“Yo, man, are you freaking nuts? Start shooting at those damn things and you’ll have every Z within five miles honing in on us. Chill out, man. It was probably just another deader that knocked something over. They’ll walk around for a while and then leave when they figure out there’s no food. Back away from the edge so they don’t notice you, and keep out of sight until they leave.”
The trigger happy guard just nodded and grunted in response, and both backed away from the edge of the roof and out of sight. I breathed a silent sigh of relief, then shuffled off to separate myself from the herd. Once I was close to the wall of the building, I turned and made sure none of the other deaders were following me. Once I was sure they were still preoccupied with determining the source of the noise, I began to sneak around to the side of the building to look for a way to let my new friends in.
I found a side entrance that was partially boarded up with plywood and listened for movement on the other side. Assured that no one would notice my B&E attempt, I began slowly working at it with the spike on my tomahawk. Within a few minutes I had a corner and one edge pulled loose, with minimal sound to draw attention to me. I tested the rest of the panel to see if it would pull loose with a few strong tugs and prayed for the best. Then, I yanked at it once, twice, three times, finally tearing it loose with several loud pops and squeals of protest from the nails and screws that had held it in place for years. Wasting no time to see if the Z’s would investigate, I scrambled inside and ran down a hall in the opposite direction from the startled voices I heard coming to investigate.
As I anticipated, the deaders heard the commotion as well. I soon heard their moans and groans as gunfire rang out down the hallway. Without pausing to consider my work, I continued following the hallway as it turned and headed toward the center of the building. I was working at a disadvantage not knowing the layout of the building, so I had to be careful that I didn’t run smack into a bunch of punters. Even so, most of these pre-War buildings were designed to be easy to navigate, and soon I was able to follow the hall away from the sounds of commotion and fighting right to the area where the punters had bunked out.
They’d chosen to shelter in a weightlifting room and were using some old mats and benches for cots and beds. I waited around the corner for the last punter to head out to face the Z’s, then crossed the hallway and ducked into the room to start searching for the maps Pancho had promised would be with his gear.
Unfortunately, it looked as though his former friends had already divvied up his stuff. Shit. I quickly started rifling through various backpacks and rucks at random, looking for the maps that Pancho claimed would be here. The only documents I turned up were some photos I wished I could unsee. Some sick pup had found an old Polaroid and taken nude photos of slaves, many of them involving abuse and worse. If I felt an iota of guilt for springing the Z’s on these punters, after seeing those pics I felt zero remorse for turning the dead loose on this crew.
Making a mental note to kill any of them who survived the deaders, I scanned the room once more for possible hiding places and came up with diddly. If those maps were to be found, they were going to be on someone’s body. Living or dead, I needed to find them and get the hell out of here. I cocked my head to listen to what was going on down the hall, and it didn’t sound good for the punters. Like I cared. My main concern was that whoever had the documents might escape and make a beeline for the ’thrope compound. If that happened, we might never get through Austin safely. I cautiously headed down the hall toward the sounds of violence with my tomahawk in one hand and my pistol in the other, hoping to stop any runners before they escaped the building.
9
Vanquished
As I turned a corner I came upon a gruesome scene. Four Z’s were eating the guts out of a punter on the floor, and he was still moving. His eyes searched around as he cried out in agony, his low moans getting more and more feeble as the deaders snacked on his innards. As I gingerly walked up to the group, one deader turned to look at me, sniffed once and then returned to its meal. I let out my breath nice and easy, kneeling at the punter’s feet and reaching up to check his cargo pockets. Nothing. I picked up my weapons and backed away, keeping an eye on the deaders all the while.
Side-stepping down the hall toward the front entrance, I could still hear some gunfire and the sounds of hand-to-hand fighting. The gunfire was becoming more sporadic; apparently there were still a few punters holding out. The hallways were pitch black, but I had no trouble navigating through the deaders and the dead as I moved toward the front of the building.
I heard a small movement down a side hall, the scuff of a boot on tile floor. I went to investigate, moving as silently as death in my mocs on the hard smooth surface of the facility floor. Moving in the direction of the noise, I came upon a group of offices. Only one door was closed. It was a solid wood door with a wire-reinforced glass window. I tried the knob to find it locked, and heard a voice whisper from inside.
“Deke! Is that you. Oh holy Jesus...Say sumthin’, man!”
I ignored his pleas, and crept over to an adjacent office. I climbed up on the desk, pushed a ceiling tile out of the way, and prepared to lift myself up into the drop ceiling. After I’d pulled myself up with as much stealth as possible, I threw a glass paperweight that I’d picked up from the desk out into the hallway, waiting for a response. Soon there were multiple deaders milling around the hall and banging against the office door where my mark was holed up.
Using the ruckus outside to cover the sounds of my movement, I used the metal roof supports above the drop ceiling to pull myself over to the adjacent office, right above where I thought the occupant might be hiding. Carefully sliding a ceiling tile away, I looked down into the room and spotted him, a lone punter, maybe 16 or 17 years of age. Just a kid. I didn’t let that affect my decision-making process at all. I knew from vast experience in dealing with sociopaths that they started young. I dropped from the ceiling on the kid, slamming him to the floor and soliciting a loud “whuff” from him as I knocked the wind from his lungs. I clamped a hand over his mouth and pinned his arms down to the floor as he struggled, placing the cold hard muzzle of my Glock against his temple.
“You know what that means, correct? Nod once if you understand.” The kid nodded, and in the dark I could see tears forming at the corners of his eyes. Unsurprising. All bullies and many sociopaths turn to jelly when the tables are turned on them. They�
��ll beg and plead for their lives, promise to turn over a new leaf, swear they’ve found Jesus, and say whatever it takes to beg a reprieve for their miserable lives. Then they go straight back to screwing other people and victimizing the weak after you let them go. Every single time.
“Now, kid, I know you’re with this group of punters, and I know you’re not some slave they’re taking to market.” He started shaking his head in protest, so I kept my hand clamped over his mouth and pistol whipped him. “Ah, ah, ah—no need to lie to me, son. I happen to know that your crew came up empty on your last run.” Realization and resignation dawned in his eyes at that. I cleared my throat.
“So here’s the deal. I have some questions to ask you, and you’re going to answer them, quietly. If I get the answers I want, maybe I’ll just knock you out and leave you here in the room with the door closed. But try to trick me, or lie, and I’ll know. And I’ll toss you outside that door without the least hesitation. Understand?”
He nodded enthusiastically. “Good. I’m going to pull my hand away, and if you scream I’ll gutshot you and leave you for the deaders.” I pulled my hand off his mouth and watched him.
He just stared up at where he thought my face was, then his eyes darted around in the darkness. He licked his lips, whispering softly, “What do you want to know?”
I rolled my eyes, realizing it was a wasted gesture since the kid couldn’t see my face. “What the hell do you think? I want those maps, with the safe house routes into the city.”
The kid screwed his face up for a moment, then he spoke. “Deke has them—I’m sure of it. He said after Jimmy disappeared, he was in charge. He took most of Jimmy’s stuff, and the maps too. No one said anything, because nobody messes with Deke.”
