Bits & Pieces

by Jonathan Maberry

  That blade, though, and the hand that held it, were covered in blood.

  The man grinned as he moved, shifting constantly to keep the five men from closing around him. Tom approved. It was a solid martial arts tactic.

  One of the bikers faked left and rushed right with a sweep of his chain to try to knock the knife out of the man’s hand.

  It was a very fast attack.

  Tom, who was fast himself, and who was a trained observer, did not see what happened. There was a blur of movement, a flash of silver, and the biker was sagging to his knees, his chain forgotten, clamping hands to his throat.

  It had happened so fast.

  Impossibly fast. No one could move like that.

  But he was wrong.

  The big man with the knife lunged at the man on the outside of the remaining four, knocked aside a gloved fist holding a butcher knife, and delivered four cuts that were too quick to follow. The biker howled in agony and fell, propelled by a palm-strike to his temple. He crashed into a third man and dragged him down.

  The other bikers rushed the man, and as he danced backward, his heel skidded on a patch of blood-soaked grass. He fell, and they piled on him.

  Tom found himself moving. It wasn’t a planned thing, because he really didn’t know who the good guy was in this fight. It could as easily have been two groups of cannibal scavengers as a bunch of survivors trying to punish someone who’d stolen their supplies.

  His instincts wrote a different scenario, though.

  There was something about the big blond man that spoke of courage and maybe even nobility. He didn’t have the cannibal craziness in his eyes. Nor did he look underfed and desperate enough to try to rob a gang.

  No. These bikers had probably targeted him.

  Bad move for most of them.

  Tom broke from the cover of the trees and launched himself into a jumping kick that smashed into one of the two men. He flopped over sideways and Tom landed next to him, stumbled, caught his balance, and whipped out his sword. The biker had time for one word.

  “Don’t—!”

  Then sword moved through the air and through flesh and the biker’s voice was still forever.

  The shock of the cut trembled up Tom’s arm. The shock of having killed someone shuddered inside his chest. It was not the first time he’d had to do it, but it was not something that got easier. If anything, it was getting harder. Requiring more of him. Or perhaps cutting more of him away.

  He wheeled around in time to see the big man toss the corpse of the fifth biker aside. The man’s neck was twisted in an ugly way.

  The man got up with fluid grace and stared at Tom for one long second, and in that moment Tom was sure this man was taking full and accurate stock of him, his weapons, and maybe even his level of skill.

  The man reversed the knife in his hand and cocked his arm. “Better duck,” he said.

  Tom heard a soft sound behind him and he ducked, pivoted, and slashed, knowing that it was the third man, the one who’d been knocked down by the second man who’d been killed. He flicked his sword out, and it struck in the same instant as the knife thrown by the big blond man.

  The last of the bikers stared at them in disbelief. He dropped the big meat cleaver he held, tried to speak past the steel stricture in his throat, failed, and fell face-forward onto the grass.

  Tom got to his feet and backed a few paces away. He kept his sword in his hands, wary of the blond man now that it was just the two of them.

  “Are there more of them?” he asked.

  The blond man took a folded kitchen towel from his pocket and began sponging blood off his arms. “There were.”

  “What?”

  There was a sound—soft and strange—and Tom whirled to see a massive dog standing in the open doorway at the back of the house. He was a brute. A mix of white shepherd and Irish wolfhound. And he was covered with leather armor into which spikes and knife blades had been fastened. The spikes and the dog’s muzzle were bright with fresh blood.

  The dog began walking across the yard, circling wide to stay out of range of Tom’s sword. He didn’t go over to the blond man, but instead stopped at a useful angle if the two of them planned a flanking maneuver on Tom. It was evidence of how well this dog had been trained.

  “How many?” asked the man, and the dog answered with three sharp barks.

  “Did—” began Tom, “did he just . . . answer you?”

  “Sure,” said the blond man. “Why not?”

  “He’s just a dog. . . .”

  “First off, his name is Baskerville, and he’s not just a dog. He’s a combat dog, and the son and grandson of combat dogs. And, second, it’s a simple response. It’s not like he recited Candide.”

  “Um . . .”

  The blond man looked him up and down. “You’re the one they call Fast Tommy.”

  “What?”

  “That’s you, isn’t it? Japanese guy with a katana. Sometimes seen with a little kid. You’re part of that group in the mountains by the reservoir, right? What are they calling that place now? Mountainside?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Word gets around,” said the man. “But you’re Fast Tommy.”

  “No one calls me that.”

  “Pretty sure everyone calls you that, son. Maybe not to your face. But let’s face it, the world’s getting pretty damned empty. How many Japanese guys with swords are there going to be running around in central California?”

  Tom said nothing. In truth he had heard that nickname, but he disliked nicknames. That one was only marginally better than another he’d heard.

  Tom the Killer.

  That was a horrible nickname that had been hung on him after he had a run-in with a group of cannibals. He tried to shake it, but nicknames are like gum. They stick to you.

  “Who are you?” he asked. He’d searched his memory for any stories of a man like this but came up empty.

  The man smiled. He had a good smile, but it did not go very deep. It was surface and it was cold. “Captain Joe Ledger,” he said.

  Neither man offered to shake hands.

  “Captain of what?”

  “Army Rangers, once upon a time. Though, to be precise, I was a sergeant in the army. Then a detective with the Baltimore police.”

  “That where you got the rank?”

  “No. I ran with a Special Ops crew for a while. The Department of Military Sciences.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “You wouldn’t have. Covert. Very specialized. We hunted terrorists who had exotic bioweapons.”

  Tom looked around at the empty world. “Guess you missed one. If that’s what this was.”

  “This was something else,” said Ledger. “Still working out exactly what, but it didn’t come at us as a terrorist thing. If so . . . then maybe my team would have been on the clock. As it was . . .”

  He spread his hands.

  It left a lot unsaid, but it also said much. There was deep grief behind that false smile. And maybe some shame, too. This man had not been able to prevent this. Maybe no one could have, but it could not be easy for a man of this kind to abide the loss of everything if it was his job to prevent it. He wondered how the man stayed sane.

  Or if he was even sane at all.

  A moan made him turn, and he saw two of the bikers struggling to get to their feet. Their eyes were vacant of everything, but there was clear need in the moans they uttered.

  “Would you mind?” asked Ledger. “I’ve got to sit my butt down. I’m way too old for this crap.”

  He limped over and sat on a swing in the yard. Tom stared at him, and then at Baskerville, who went over and sat next to him.

  There were three zombies now, and another who was beginning to stir.

  This is a test, he thought. He wants to see if I understand how this all works.

  Tom nodded to himself, then raised his sword and did what had to be done.

  “Three more in the house,” said Ledger
. “Baskerville cripples them, but he’s not allowed to bite. Don’t want him to get sick on zombie muck.”

  Without saying a word, Tom went into the house. The three zoms there had been ruined by the dog and its spiked armor. They could never have risen, but he could not abide leaving them here to suffer. Or to endure. Whichever word worked for the things they had become. He ended them.

  As he walked out into the yard, the soldier was swinging slowly back and forth, watching a flock of starlings fly from tree to tree. He didn’t turn to watch Tom approach.

  “It’s quiet now,” he said.

  Tom said nothing. He cleaned his sword and resheathed it.

  “That’s what I call it when we kill those zoms,” continued Ledger. “It’s how I think of it. They’ve been ‘quieted.’ ”

  Tom thought about the word and nodded to himself. It was a good word for a bad thing. It was a word that changed the meaning of the act of killing.

  “Sit,” said Ledger, waving him to the second swing.

  After a moment, Tom sat.

  “Thanks for the assist,” said Ledger.

  “Not sure you needed one.”

  Ledger smiled and shrugged. “Thanks anyway.”

  They watched the birds. Ledger fished in a pocket and produced two energy bars and handed one to Tom. It was like being given a pot of gold. He tore it open and ate it greedily. Then he shared his canteen with Ledger. The dog came and lay like a sphinx on the grass between them.

  “Tell me your story,” said Ledger, and Tom did so. Ledger then shared his, or at least an abbreviated version of his. Each story was grown from a seed of heartbreak and loss.

  After they were done, they said nothing for five whole minutes.

  Then Tom asked, “Who are these guys and why did we just kill them?”

  “Ah,” said Ledger. “Call it us doing a much-needed public service.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means that these boys are part of what is quickly becoming a real problem, and as you have probably noticed, we don’t need any more problems. Seven billion hungry corpses will pretty much fill my quota for crap I do not need. But the skull-riders are something new.”

  “Skull-riders?”

  “I know. Couldn’t be more of a cartoon name. If you go over and examine them, you’ll see that they all have some kind of skull tattoo.”

  Tom shook his head. “I’ll take your word for it. Who and what are they?”

  “Most of them were pretty ordinary. Some were even bikers, but not all of them. For the most part they’re predators who have found a cause. Something that motivates them, unites them, and inspires them.”

  “Which is?”

  “They capture kids. Boys and girls. Some young men and women, too. They have camps. Do you really need to know what goes on in those camps?”

  Tom wanted to vomit. “You know this for a fact?”

  “I do. I’ve closed down a couple of those camps.”

  “Alone?”

  Ledger shook his head. “I reconnected with a couple of my guys from the DMS. That’s a story in itself. And I’m always scouting for new talent. I want to form a kind of informal law out here. More law enforcement than anything else.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “As a heart attack. I never cared much for bullies or any other kind of predator. Didn’t tolerate them much before the Fall, and I can’t say I’ve got the warm fuzzies for them now. Maybe less so now. The skull-riders are a bad, bad bunch. I’ve decided to make them my new hobby.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Not counting this pack of morons?” Ledger said, nodding to the bodies. “Maybe twenty-six, twenty-seven packs ranging from four to twenty riders.”

  “And it’s you and a couple of other guys?”

  “So far.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “Been told that.”

  “How many have you . . . ? You know?”

  “Counting these guys, my boys have taken out fifty-seven. Men and women. I don’t cut breaks for gender when it comes to this stuff. Besides, one of the pack leaders is a woman. Mama Rat. Charming lady, from what I’ve heard. She and a few other packs have been working their way toward San Jose, which is where I’m heading. Figured Baskerville and I would have us some fun. And . . . I’m also looking for his brother. Damn dog got lost during a running fight, and I met someone who said they saw a dog that fits the description on the outskirts of San Jose. So . . . that’s where I’m heading.”

  He turned and looked at Tom.

  “What?” asked Tom.

  “I . . . don’t suppose you’d like to join me?”

  “I can’t. My little brother’s in Mountainside and—”

  “So why are you out here, then?”

  Tom took a moment on that. “Looking.”

  “Looking for what?”

  “There’s only a few hundred people in town. And maybe twice that many in a second town just north of us. That’s not enough. If we’re going to come back from this, we need everyone we can.”

  “Five thousand minimum,” said Ledger, nodding. “That’s the standard model for rebuilding the gene pool.”

  “We’re nowhere near that.”

  Ledger nodded. “Let me put it this way, then. If the skull-riders are sending multiple packs to San Jose, what do you think they expect to find? I mean, it’s a very specific target. Don’t you think there have to be at least some reliable rumors about survivors?”

  Tom said nothing.

  “That’s what I think,” said Ledger. “And since I’ve got nothing better to do than try to do what I can—which is a passive way of saying it’s a moral imperative, just in case you weren’t following—I’m going to follow every lead I can. Every rumor I can. Every chance I can. Do I have to explain why?”

  Tom stood up and walked a few paces away, his hands thrust into his back pockets.

  “My brother . . . ,” he began, then stopped.

  “Your brother needs a world to inherit,” said Ledger gently.

  The birds still filled the air, moving from tree to tree to tree.

  “I . . . ,” Tom said, then stopped again, shaking his head. Then he sighed and turned. “Okay.”

  Ledger stood up.

  “Just for a little while, though,” said Tom. “I don’t want to be away from Benny for too long.”

  Ledger offered his hand. “Welcome to the war,” he said.

  After only a slight pause, Tom took the offered hand.

  4

  Benny and Chong

  (A few weeks before Rot & Ruin)

  “Happy birthday,” said Chong, and handed Benny a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine.

  Benny grinned. “Hey, thanks, dude!”

  They sat in the shade of Benny’s porch with cold glasses of iced tea and the crumbling debris of Mrs. Riley’s corn-and-walnut muffins. Overhead the summer sun was a fireball, but there was a breeze off the reservoir that was damp and cool.

  “How’s it feel to be fifteen?” asked Chong, who would pass the same milestone in ten days.

  “Same as being fourteen, eleven months, and thirty days.”

  “What I figured,” Chong said. “We have to get jobs.”

  “Yeah.”

  They both sighed. The town regulations were inflexible. All teens had to get a job within two months of turning fifteen or they’d have their rations cut by half. Chong was no more enthusiastic about it than Benny. Fifteen had always seemed a million years off.

  “I’m probably going to get a job at Lafferty’s,” said Benny. “Work inside. All the pop I can drink.”

  “Lafferty’s isn’t hiring. I asked.”

  “Oh. Crap.”

  “What about that erosion artist?” asked Chong. “You can draw pretty good. Bounty hunters always need good erosion portraits.”

  It was true. Erosion portraits were a solid business. Artists painted pictures of how people might look if they’d been zommed
out. Bounty hunters used the portraits to try to find the zom in question and put them down. Tom called it “giving closure,” but Benny thought that was a sissy way to phrase it. Charlie Pink-eye and his buddy, the Motor City Hammer, had cooler names for it. Bag-and-tag jobs. Shutdowns. Drops. Things like that.

  “Maybe,” Benny said uncertainly. “Could be fun. Could be boring.”

  “Better than shoveling horse poop at the stables.”

  “Good point.”

  They sipped their tea.

  “Open it,” prompted Chong, changing the subject.

  Benny grinned and tackled the knots. Just to be devious, Chong had tied a series of bizarre sailor’s knots in the twine. Stuff they’d learned in the Scouts. It took Benny five minutes to solve them, and he stuffed the twine down the back of Chong’s shirt. Then he unwrapped the parcel paper to reveal six packs of brand-new Zombie Cards.

  “Dude!” cried Benny, grinning hard enough to sprain his face.

  “I get your doubles,” warned Chong.

  “Yeah, yeah . . . dude! This is soooo cool.”

  Benny tore open the first pack and immediately struck gold. The very first card was of a man with a scarred and ugly face, short dark hair, and pistol butts sticking out of every pocket.

  “Niiiiice!” said Chong. “Read the back.”

  Benny flipped the card over and read the text:

  The Bounty Hunters #95: “The Motor City Hammer.” The Hammer is half of the most famous and successful team of bounty hunters to work the Ruin since First Night. With his partner, Charlie Matthias, the Hammer has racked up more confirmed kills than anyone; and he’s rumored to have amassed a fortune from all the heads he’s taken!

  Benny turned and gave Chong a high five. “Oh, man, I have soooo wanted this card. Now I have both Charlie and the Hammer.”

  Chong was grinning too. “Just remember, I get the doubles.”

  “Yeah, cool, no problem.”

  They stared at the card for a long time. The Motor City Hammer was so dangerous, so tough, so everything that Benny wanted to be. Not like Tom. Nothing like Tom, even if they both did the same thing. It made Benny laugh to think that Tom considered himself a bounty hunter. As if he could ever be as tough or cool as the Hammer. What a joke. Tom the Coward couldn’t hold a candle to the Hammer. Or Charlie.