Nix was incredibly good with a sword, even though she had been training only as long as Benny—five short weeks. Benny was a reasonably good athlete, but better at baseball and wrestling than swordplay. Nix was a natural, and in the instant after Tom started each match, her face underwent a change from the smiling, freckly girl who Benny loved to something else. Infinitely more intense, incredibly focused. And ferocious. Even though she lacked Lilah’s years of experience, Nix was every bit as aggressive.
It impressed Benny.
But it also scared him.
Her attack never faltered. She never backed off. Her sword flashed and moved in a blur, and it was all Benny could do to defend himself. Tom had taught him how to deal with aggression: evade and protect, then look for a lull and attack. But Nix never paused; there was no lull.
Gradually the catcalls and jokes from the others faded as the duel went on. And on.
Benny lost count of how many strikes he blocked; and the only attacks he managed were weak counterattacks intended to prevent a combination. He gave ground constantly.
Then Benny saw something that absolutely chilled him. Something that almost made him forget to block.
It was Nix’s mouth. Her lips.
As she fought, with every strike of her sword, her lips formed a word.
A name.
Charlie.
The name of the man who had killed Nix’s mother.
Charlie Pink-eye.
With sickening clarity, Benny realized that Nix was not sparring with him; she wasn’t playing. She was fighting.
There was a wildness in her green eyes that scared Benny. It pierced his heart with all the force of an arrow.
“Nix,” he said, but his voice was lost in the sound of wood battering against wood. When he looked into her eyes, he was sure—absolutely positive—that Nix was not seeing him. Not a chance. She was somewhere else entirely. Maybe in her house on that horrible night, when nothing she could do was enough to save her mother. Or out in the Ruin as a helpless prisoner of Charlie, the Hammer, and their men. Or in the bounty hunters’ camp during the battle. Nix had wanted to strike Charlie down herself, but events had gone a different way. Nix had been robbed of that moment.
Of that closure.
Benny’s arms began to tremble from the effort of blocking the attacks, but Nix’s blows were every bit as sure and strong.
Does she know? he wondered. Where is her head right now?
“Nix,” he said again, louder, and he could hear concern and maybe even a little panic in his own voice.
The sword kept coming, faster and harder. Benny didn’t dare risk anything but defense. If he tried to simply step back, Nix’s bokken would crush his skull.
“Nix!” This time he shouted it.
Her mouth formed the hated name. Over and over again.
“Nix!”
There was a blur of movement and a flash of silver, and Nix’s sword suddenly jerked to a stop in mid-strike, the edge slamming to a stop against a metal pole.
With another sharp cry, Benny staggered back and fell hard on his butt.
He stared at the tableau.
Lilah stood between him and Nix, her spear held high and in a wide grip. Nix’s sword had met the shaft of that spear and stopped there. And then Tom was there, stepping in quickly and gently to take the bokken from Nix’s hands. Nix barely noticed either of them. Instead she stared at Benny, who sat splay-legged on the grass.
Across the yard, Chong and Morgie stared with open mouths and unblinking eyes, all jokes forgotten.
Nix’s eyes blazed with weird lights for a heartbeat longer.
Then she blinked, instantly confused by what she was seeing, what she was doing.
“W-what—?” she murmured, as if someone had asked her a question. A half smile wavered on her lips. “What?”
Tom cleared his throat. “Okay,” he said softly, “let’s call it a day? Pie and iced tea?”
Nix turned and looked at her hands. They were flushed red from holding the sword with such force. Then she looked at Benny, who still sat on the grass.
“I’m . . .” But that was all she got out; her face immediately crumpled into a wince of pain as the first heavy sobs broke from her chest. She whirled and ran out of the yard and up the path toward town.
Benny flung his sword away and scrambled to his feet to run after her, but Tom blocked him with a hand to his chest.
“Don’t,” he said.
“I have to,” insisted Benny.
“What’s going on?” demanded Morgie, getting heavily to his feet. Chong did too, and even though he said nothing, his intelligent eyes were cutting from Benny to Tom to Nix’s diminishing figure.
Benny pushed Tom’s hand away and headed for the gate, but Lilah moved faster. She thrust her spear into Benny’s hand, vaulted the rail like a gazelle, and raced after Nix faster than Benny ever could.
“Hey!” Benny yelled.
Tom rested his hand on Benny’s shoulder. “No, kiddo. Let them go.”
Morgie and Chong came up to stand with them, and the four of them watched the figures dwindle in the distance.
“What’s going on?” Morgie asked again, but there was less force in his question this time. When Benny glanced at him, he saw understanding blossoming in his friend’s eyes. Chong was already there.
They watched the road for a long time, even though there was nothing to see.
Chong said, “On First Night, everybody saw someone they love die.”
Tom nodded.
“That’s why the whole town is like the way it is, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Tom. “They used to call it post-traumatic stress disorder. Now . . . it’s just the way things are. Everyone has been damaged by grief, and most people think there’s no escape.”
“Is there?” asked Benny.
Tom sighed. “For my generation? I don’t know. Maybe not. Most of the adults have given up hope.”
“I meant . . . for Nix,” said Benny. “Is she always going to be like this? I mean . . . it wasn’t zoms who killed her mom. It was Charlie, and he’s dead.”
“I don’t know,” said Tom. “Everything in this town reminds Nix of her mom. Everything always will.”
“That’s why she wants to leave,” said Morgie, and they all turned to look at him. “I know she says it’s ’cause she wants to find that plane you guys saw, but that ain’t it. She don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t think she can be here.”
The comment was so unlike Morgie that they all stared at him. Morgie scratched at the edge of his bandage and kept looking down the road. After a while, Tom nodded.
“I know exactly how she feels,” he said, and without further comment walked slowly back to the house.
The three boys stood at the wooden fence for long minutes.
“This is all going to change,” murmured Morgie. “Ain’t it?”
Benny and Chong didn’t look at him.
“Nix. Tom. Us. All of it’s over, ain’t it?”
Chong opened the garden gate. “I’d better get home. I have work in the morning.”
They watched him walk along the path under the summer trees.
After a moment, Morgie sighed and followed.
Benny Imura stood at the open fence, pulled in so many directions at once that all he could do was stand there.
Then he turned around, crossed the yard, and picked up his sword. The handle was cool from lying in the grass, and he adjusted his hold on it, feeling the balance.
He went over to the old car tire Tom had hung on a rope from a tree. When he was little he’d swung on that tire, but he wasn’t that little kid anymore.
With a whistle and thud he swung the sword and hit the tire. It was an awkward hit, poorly executed because his arms ached and his mind was splintered. He stepped back, took a breath, and swung again.
A more solid hit this time, but still not right.
He swung again. And again. Not letting up, not dropping the swo
rd even when the ache in his arms turned to fire. He couldn’t. To do that would allow him to be weak; it would keep his skills at too low a level. And he could not afford that. He could not risk that.
As much as he hated the thought, Benny Imura knew for sure that he would need to use that sword the right way. The real way. The way a fighter would. The way a zombie hunter would.
And . . . he would probably need it soon. The world seemed to be spinning him in that direction.
As he struck and struck and struck, he did not mouth the name of their enemy. He did not say “Charlie.” Instead Benny mouthed a different word. One that tapped a different source of power than the well of hate from which Nix drank. He struck and struck and struck for what he thought and hoped was a better purpose. A cleaner one.
“Nix,” he breathed, as he trained to fight the monsters he knew lived in his world. “Nix.”
It put power into every single blow.
FROM NIX’S JOURNAL
ON BEING WHO WE ARE
(BEFORE FIRE & ASH)
Benny isn’t like he used to be.
I know I’m not.
Chong’s changing too. Since we’ve come out to the Ruin, he’s gotten tougher. But also more afraid. It’s weird, because both things seem to be happening at the same time in him.
Even Lilah’s changing. She used to be so sure about everything. I guess living alone for so long and having no one to answer to will do that. Now she’s part of us, and she’s part of a couple. Her and Chong. And she’s part of a quest.
And we’re all Tom’s samurai. Even with him gone. Or maybe more so because he’s gone.
We’re all changing into something else.
It’s scary.
But I like it.
Hero Town
1
Then
New York City
(On First Night, fourteen years before Rot & Ruin)
Rachael Elle was a superhero.
Except when she was an elf queen.
Or when she was a sociopathic assassin clone.
Rachael was a lot of people.
Sixty-two people so far, with more planned.
Her friends included Star Wars stormtroopers, the many incarnations of Doctor Who and all his companions, tragic princesses from politically unstable fantasy lands, Jedi and Sith warriors, various members of the Avengers, the Justice League, the X-Men, the Guardians of the Galaxy, the crew of Serenity, the bridge crew of the Enterprise, hobbits, wizards, and at least one member each from Gryffindor, Slytherin, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw.
She had interesting friends.
Currently Rachael was dressed in skintight dark-blue trousers, a snug jacket, gun belt, and fingerless gloves. Her dark hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail, and there was a wicked cut on her cheek and another above her eye. Leftovers from when a mind-controlled Hawkeye invaded the SHIELD Helicarrier to free Loki.
Today Rachael was not Rachael. She was Maria Hill, a SHIELD agent and staunch supporter of freedom despite the constant and insidious threat of HYDRA.
Or she would be Maria Hill if she could get the grommet tool to work right so she could attach the holster to the leather gun belt. The holster, the belt, and the rest of the outfit had been made by her over many nights of painstaking research, design, materials shopping, measuring, cutting, and sewing. It was the eleventh of twelve outfits she had brought with her to New York for the big Comic Con at the Javits Center. The costumes hung on reinforced hangers that filled the closet in the small hotel room. Accessories were piled on both of the room’s twin beds or arranged in careful groupings on the floor. Rachael stood in front of the mirror and studied her costume. The fit, the colors, the match between her version and the one worn by the actress in the Avengers movies and the SHIELD TV show. She rather thought hers was better. Cobie Smulders, though very pretty, was rail-thin. Rachael had a better figure and more muscle. She knew she rocked the costume. Brett, the nineteen-year-old who was going to be Thor for most of the weekend—styles from two different movie costumes, and four variations from the comics—would appreciate it, she was certain.
She certainly liked the way he fit his Asgardian clothes. He was tall, tan, and had a face a true Norse god would kill for, blue eyes that could stop the sun in the sky, and shoulder-length hair that wasn’t a wig. He was Thor.
So, yes, Rachael wanted Brett to appreciate more than her costume-making skills. She’d caught him looking, especially when she wore something tight or low-cut. When they went as Peeta and Katniss, he really paid attention to her. Working his role as her “boyfriend,” at least in cosplay terms. Though frankly Rachael wasn’t sure that it was just acting, that maybe Brett wasn’t just role-playing his interest.
She certainly wasn’t.
The age thing was the only real question. She would be seventeen in four weeks. Brett, like most of the guys in school, tended to focus on “older” women. Older as in college freshmen. As if two years made that much of a difference. Please.
Of course it didn’t help at all when Gayla came to one of these conventions. Gayla was nineteen, and she always wore costumes that were more shock than style. Daenerys from Game of Thrones—one of her skimpier costumes. Or Power Girl, with the skintight white onesie with the huge cutout for cleavage. Or slave-girl Princess Leia. It was repulsive. Gayla was half-naked most of the time, and sure, she had a very nice figure, but everyone knew she wasn’t born with those boobs. She went from a small B cup to whatever the heck you’d call those science-fiction plastic bowling balls she had now. That happened last summer, right after she graduated. She went away with a normal chest and came back looking like a Barbie doll. Brett and most of the other guys lost their damn minds.
They were plastic! They weren’t real. What did it matter?
Rachael was real, head to toe. In this costume, Brett would absolutely be able to see that. And she was no stick figure herself. If Brett was able to grasp real from fake, then the choice would be obvious.
Rachael nodded to herself and unzipped her jacket a bit to show some cleavage.
Then she growled out loud and zipped it up most of the way, immediately disgusted with herself. She had never really been the kind to flaunt her curves to attract a boy, and hated that she was starting to head in that direction now.
“What are you doing?” she demanded of her reflection.
The image of Gayla seemed to wander through her imagination, barely dressed, with a love-struck Brett staggering along behind. Rachael’s fingers lingered on the zipper pull. Maybe just a little . . .
“You are such a pig,” she told herself. Or maybe she was talking to Brett.
Or Gayla.
She turned away, shaking her head, and went back to sit on the edge of the bed to continue working on the belt.
Across the room, on the big-screen TV, the reporter on CNN was telling some crazy story about a riot in Pittsburgh. People acting all weird, attacking one another. Biting one another.
“Everyone’s insane,” she told the screen.
The aerial video footage of a riot played out, but Rachael bent to her work and was soon lost in the detail-oriented task of working with grommets and leather and all the costumer’s tools.
Like most people around the world, she did not pay much attention to these first reports.
Like most people, she should have.
2
Now
Doylestown, Pennsylvania
(This story takes place at the same time as Rot & Ruin)
Rags kept to the shadows as she moved along the road.
In the fifteen years since the dead rose, Mother Nature had been ferocious in her determination to reclaim the world. Most of the streets had been torn apart by the slow fingers of roots. Young trees rose above seas of pernicious weeds. Heavy, hairy vines clung to the sides of the trees like lampreys on the skin of sharks. Kudzu, once alien to America, now dominated the landscape, obscuring the facades of most stores and homes and covering many of the cars in green
blankets. By day these streets ran with wild deer, foxes, horses, and packs of feral dogs. By night bears and wolves prowled the alleys and backyards, watched by owls and feared by everything.
Beside her, Ghoulie trotted along, sniffing everything, eyes alert, ears up. Like his father—Rags’s old and much-missed friend, Bones—Ghoulie was a brute. He had the mixed shepherd–Irish wolfhound bulk and general shape of Bones; but he also had the heavier shoulders and broader snout of his mastiff mother. Rags estimated that Ghoulie was about two hundred pounds, slightly less than twice her weight. He wore a leather harness studded with rows of sixteen-penny nails that stood up like porcupine quills. Ghoulie had a bite-proof leather-and-plastic helmet that Rags had made from a jockey’s helmet she’d taken from an abandoned racetrack in Kentucky.
The leather armor creaked a little as Ghoulie went sniffing along, but the sound was nearly lost beneath the continuous pulse of crickets and cicadas.
For her part, Rags wore jeans and a leather jacket, hiking boots and fingerless kickboxing gloves she’d taken from a sporting goods store in South Carolina and reinforced with small pieces of very hard plastic. Lightweight and strong. Her football helmet hung from her belt, ready to grab and put on if she encountered any of the dead. She made no sound at all as she walked. She’d learned that skill long ago. Captain Ledger was occasionally a jerk when it came to reinforcing his rules of safety, but Rags knew that she was alive because of him. She knew that she had survived a thousand instances when she would otherwise have died had it not been for the training he’d given her. Four years of it. Every single day that they’d traveled together. No days off.
“Will the dead take a day off?” he asked every time she complained.
“No,” was her grudging, inevitable answer.
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