Bits & Pieces

by Jonathan Maberry

  And Ida . . . she died of the flu early last year.

  Ida came back almost at once, but it wasn’t really Ida. It was a hungry thing that looked like her, but everything that had actually been her was gone.

  The girls did what they had to do, what they’d been trained all their lives to do. Afterward they buried Ida in the cemetery, which used to be someone’s garden. Ida now slept in the cool, quiet ground along with the other kids and the adults who’d died at home.

  Home.

  They lived in what had once been known as the Rattlesnake Valley Motor Court. It was a V-shaped building with forty bedroom units, an empty pool, a tennis court, and a wall that had been meticulously built of tractor-trailers by previous tenants of the place who’d later died of plague. The tires of the big trucks had been slashed, and all the spaces under and around the vehicles had been packed with heavy stones and clay. There were a dozen ways out, but you had to know where they were and you had to have a working brain to use them. Even then, there were booby traps in case bands of human raiders tried to get in. A few tried every year. None had ever managed it. Not alive.

  One thing Ida and the other adults had taught the girls was that they had to do whatever they needed to do in order to survive. The girls learned those lessons well, which is why these five were still alive. Along with the missing Tiffany, they were the top hunters, the best fighters. They were the fiercest of the little tribe that had lived—and died—at the Rattlesnake Valley Motor Court. They understood how to hunt, cook, do first aid, farm, observe, process, react, and fight.

  They knew about their world, and they relied on what they’d been taught and what they’d learned from doing.

  But now the rules were changing.

  The dead were beginning to move in packs.

  And Tiffany was missing.

  Heather, the fifth and youngest girl in the hunting party, was the only one with a working pair of binoculars. While the others talked, she sat in silence and studied the dead through the high-powered lenses. When she finally spoke, her voice was filled with doubt and fear. “They look the same as always.”

  “What did you expect?” asked Laura sharply. “Little monkeys sitting on their backs, steering them?”

  “No, stupid . . . but if they’re the same, then why are they moving differently?”

  None of the girls had an answer to that. When it came to the dead, their security, their hunting patterns, their lives depended on a total lack of change. So many other things in their world changed all the time—friends and adults dying, exotic and dangerous animals coming through, drought ravaging the crops, bad storms. Those things pushed them to their limits. If the dead somehow changed, then that could push them over the edge.

  And they all knew it.

  Michelle touched Heather’s arm and in a small and fragile voice asked, “Do you see . . . ?”

  She didn’t finish the question. There was no point. They all knew what she was asking.

  Did Heather see Tiffany out there?

  Among the dead.

  Heather was a long time answering. Not because she was afraid to answer the question, but because she was being sure, making certain. She moved the glasses from face to face, lingering long enough to study the features. Most of the dead were ravaged by old wounds—the injuries, bites, or bullets that had killed them—or pocked by the diseases that had swept through the fleeing human populations after the dead rose. The flesh of any zombie older than a week would be withered to a leathery mask of wrinkles. Once, when doing this kind of meticulous search among a cluster of zombies, Heather saw a torn and twisted figure whose body lacked arms and had much exposed bone showing through the remaining flesh. She could not be sure—and she didn’t want to make sure—but in her heart she believed that it was Dolan. Or what had been left of him after the panther had done its awful work.

  She let out a slow sigh.

  “No,” she said with real relief, “she’s not down there.”

  As relief went, it was as thin and capricious as a brief waft of cool air. It did not mean that Tiffany was still alive. All it meant was that she was not part of this group of the dead.

  Suddenly all the dead turned at the same time, twisting around to the east, raising their heads as if listening to a sound; however, none of the girls could hear or see anything. The dead seemed to tremble with indecision for a moment, their fingers twitching, mouths opening and closing, and then as one they began moving toward the tree line on the east part of the valley.

  “What’s going on?” gasped Michelle.

  Samantha narrowed her eyes as she watched the dead move toward some very specific part of the forest. “I don’t know. They must have heard something.”

  “Might be a deer,” suggested Michelle, but Samantha shook her head.

  “No, they heard something, and deer don’t make enough noise to cause them all to react like that.”

  The other girls nodded.

  Small, strong hands gripped the tree limbs and tightened around the handles of weapons.

  Then a yell split the air.

  A high, piercing scream of total terror.

  A millisecond later Tiffany burst from between two shaggy shrubs and came running full tilt into the field the zombies had recently vacated. Her clothes were torn and streaked with blood; she held a broken spear in one hand, and her dark hair snapped in the wind as she ran.

  Michelle opened her mouth to yell out, to let Tiffany know that her friends were close by, but Samantha silenced her with a sharp gesture. Laura leaned forward and pointed.

  “Oh my God . . . look!”

  The darkness under the trees roiled and twisted, and then the zombies staggered out into the sunlight. All the ones who had followed whatever lure had drawn them to the east . . . and many, many more.

  At least a hundred of the tattered gray figures lurched after their fleeing prey, and as if in chorus they opened their mouths to utter a moan of unbearable hunger. It filled the sky and tore another scream from Tiffany.

  “We have to do something,” pleaded Michelle.

  “If she makes it to the creek, she’ll be okay,” said Laura. A small ribbon of blue meandered through the valley floor. It was waist deep in places and the current, though not brisk, would nonetheless confuse the awkward feet of the mindless dead. They watched as Tiffany spotted the stream and cut right toward it, angling in the direction of the deepest section.

  “Good,” said Samantha under her breath. “Good . . .”

  She took the field glasses from Heather and spent several long, agonizing moments studying the darkness under the tree line. Heather and Amanda must have seen some expression on her face, because they both asked, “What?” at the same time.

  “Look!” snapped Samantha. “Behind the zombies.”

  They all looked, first by squinting and then as the binoculars were handed from one to the other. Soon they each wore identical expressions of mingled surprise, confusion, and fear.

  “I don’t understand,” murmured Michelle.

  “I don’t either,” said Laura.

  None of them did, because what they saw made no sense in the world as they understood it.

  As the dead continued to stagger out of the forest, a line of people walked slightly behind them. There were at least twenty of them, and they wore identical clothes: black pants and black shirts with some white design on them. Red cloth streamers were tied to their ankles, knees, waists, and wrists. Each of them held a weapon in one hand, a sword or ax or knife; and each of them held something to their mouths that flashed with silver light as they emerged from shadows into the sunny field.

  None of them made a sound, though it looked like they were all blowing whistles.

  Silent whistles.

  “Are they . . . dog whistles?” wondered Michelle.

  “I . . . think so,” said Laura. “Dolan found one in that house we raided for food three years ago.”

  The people in black and red continued to walk forwa
rd without hurry, the silver whistles constantly held to their puffing mouths. Some came from different arms of the forest and stood waiting for the tide of dead to reach them.

  The dead moved around them and past them, but not one of the cold zombies reached out a hand to touch what was clearly warm, living flesh.

  It was a totally bizarre moment.

  “What are they doing?” breathed Amanda.

  Samantha shook her head.

  But in fact it was clear what these strangers were doing. It simply seemed impossible.

  Using their silent whistles, the strangers were driving the zombies into the field, calling them together, turning them into a pack.

  And sending them after Tiffany.

  There were now at least a hundred and fifty of the dead converging on Tiffany, and it was in no way certain that she’d reach the stream in time. The dead were coming from everywhere, some walking out of shadows to the north and south of the field, closing the teeth of this terrible trap. And now there were at least two dozen of the strangers. All of them were adults, and each of them carried a gleaming weapon.

  Heather gripped Samantha’s arm with desperate force. “We have to do something.”

  Samantha opened her mouth but she said nothing, gave no orders.

  Because to go down there was certain death.

  Absolutely certain.

  Tiffany screamed again as she ran.

  The dead moaned as they followed.

  5

  South Fork Wildlife Area

  Southern California

  Before Marty Kirk was a reaper, he’d been a top Hollywood producer. He put together movie deals that made hundreds of millions, he worked with the A-list of talent. His was a household name known even to people who didn’t often go to the movies. Marty Kirk. He was a regular guest on Jon Stewart and Jay Leno and Conan O’Brien.

  But that was before Jon and Jay and Conan and their audiences of millions were swept away by a tide of flesh-eating madness.

  That was before the Fall.

  Now he was known as Brother Marty.

  Now he was a reaper of the Night Church.

  He wore the black clothes, the red tassels, the white wings. He dabbed his tassels in a chemical mixture that kept the living dead—the gray people—from attacking. He spent hours each day reciting prayers and singing hymns and listening to sermons about a god that Brother Marty had never even heard of before the Fall.

  A god that, even now, he didn’t believe in.

  Not at all. Not even a little.

  And yet it was a god in whose name he had killed, and in whose name he had ordered other reapers to open red mouths in the flesh of the heretics and blasphemers.

  Brother Marty never once spoke of his lack of personal faith. He never even hinted at it.

  Brother Marty, above all else, wasn’t stupid.

  As the old saying goes, he knew on which side his bread was buttered.

  Over the last nine years he had risen within the ranks of the Night Church, first from the least capable foot soldier in the service of Saint John, to a member of the logistics team, to the head of recruitment, all the way to his current position as a member of the Council of Sorrows and a personal aide to the saint.

  Now he traveled everywhere with Saint John. He’d gone with him from Wyoming to Utah, to Idaho and Montana, and all through Nevada. Zigzagged throughout the west, raising armies of reapers, burning towns and settlements of blasphemers, carrying out the will of Thanatos.

  Or, as Brother Marty privately viewed it, carrying out the master plan of an absolute total nutbag. Saint John was a monster by anyone’s standards. A serial killer of legendary status before the Fall, a menace to society who had nonetheless been the inspiration for half a dozen movies and twice as many books, and who was now the charismatic leader of a vast army of killers. It was a crazy place to be, but in this world it was the only safe place left to stand. Marty always looked out for Marty. First and foremost. And to accomplish that, he did whatever he had to do, to whomever he had to do it.

  He did not consider himself evil. Marty didn’t believe in evil. Evil was something priests and rabbis droned on about, and Marty hadn’t seen the inside of a synagogue since he was ten. He didn’t believe that there was anything after death. All there was after this was bones in a box. No redemption, no paradise. Nothing, zip, nada.

  So the only smart thing to do was stay alive as long as possible, and stay as well fed and protected as possible until the last gasp.

  Nowhere was safer than with Saint John. The reapers were an unstoppable force.

  And Saint John knew how to call on an even bigger and far more dangerous horde—the living dead. The saint and his reapers used their protective chemicals to be able to walk among the gray people, and employed dog whistles to call and direct the rotting walkers.

  Who could ever stand in the way of that?

  A few weeks ago Saint John had left Nevada, taking the main body of his reaper army with him in search of a string of nine previously unknown towns in central California. Nine towns packed with people whose flesh, according to the saint, ached to feel the kiss of the knife.

  The problem was . . . California was a big darn state, and these towns hadn’t existed back when maps were still being made. They were refugee camps that had grown into gated communities. Saint John wanted them destroyed. He wanted to burn them as a statement that no one may defy the will of Lord Thanatos.

  All praise to his darkness, thought Brother Marty sourly. All praise, yada yada yada.

  But as he approached the saint, he composed his face into one of reverence and humility.

  He dropped to his knees. “Honored one,” said Marty as he bent and kissed the dirt caked on Saint John’s shoes. Then, like an obedient dog, he glanced up at the saint.

  Saint John’s dark eyes were so deeply set that they made his pale face appear skeletal. His head was tattooed with a pattern of thorny vines. He wore black trousers and a billowy black shirt, his legs and arms wrapped with bloodred ribbons. On his chest was a beautifully rendered chalk drawing of angel wings. He was Saint John of the Knife, and the reapers were his flock, and he was the single most impressive and charismatic person Brother Marty had ever met. And he’d met everyone in Hollywood.

  “Did you find a scout for me?” asked the saint.

  Brother Marty hesitated for a moment. “I did . . . and I didn’t. It’s complicated.”

  “Stand up and talk to me,” said Saint John. “Let me see your face.”

  Brother Marty got to his feet. He did not tremble, as many of the reapers did in the presence of Saint John. He had that much self-control; he was too practiced a performer, even as a producer, to show weakness during any meeting.

  “We found a small gang of crooks. Lowlifes, you know the type,” said Marty. “Their leader was a gun thug named—and I’m not joking—Tony Grapes. Real name. Anyway, I appealed to Tony’s better nature, and he very willingly and enthusiastically, I might add, opened red mouths in all four of his own goons fast as you can say summer blockbuster. Wham, bam, and down they go.”

  Saint John nodded his approval. There was the slightest trace of a smile on his severe mouth, as there often was when he listened to Brother Marty.

  “So, we do the whole conversion process, and our friend Tony here is an instant altar boy. He can’t help us enough, he can’t be more helpful. He’s so helpful I want to tell him to shut up already, but since I just told him to talk, I can’t very well turn that faucet off. Anyway, I ask him if he ever heard of a place called Mountainside, and he has. That’s good, that’s great, that’s peaches and ice cream.”

  “But . . . ?” coaxed Saint John.

  “But . . . he don’t exactly know where it is.”

  Saint John said nothing. He was a patient man, and he allowed Brother Marty to get to his point in his own way.

  “So, suddenly Brother Tony and I are having a new set of contract negotiations, and you know how that goes. Things get l
oud, things get wet. Long story short, he knows a guy who knows a guy who does know where Mountainside is.”

  “Was our new reaper able to tell us where to find this friend of a friend?”

  “Ah, well, that’s where it gets complicated,” said Marty with a sad smile. “As it turns out, the guy he knows is a pal, but the guy his guy knows, the one who actually can tell us where Mountainside is—he’s not exactly a friend of our Mr. Tony Grapes.”

  “Oh?”

  “It seems Brother Tony used to run with a crowd who did considerable business with someone this other guy didn’t like. There was some kind of wild craziness a while ago, and now this other guy would like to see Tony’s head on a pole. Maybe metaphorically, maybe not, Tony wasn’t clear on that point. This other guy scares the turkey stuffing out of Mr. Grapes.”

  “Who is this other man?” asked Saint John. “Who is this enemy of god and where can we find him?”

  “That’s what I asked Brother Tony, and he says that he can take us right to him, but he wants protection because this fellow has made some vague threats about throat-cutting and spinal separation. Credible threats, apparently. The man’s a trade guard who works all up and down the California border towns and outposts.”

  “His name?”

  “Sweeney,” said Brother Marty. “His name is Iron Mike Sweeney.”

  6

  Sanctuary

  Area 51

  Benny Imura went as far as he could get from Captain Ledger, his stupid training methods, and everything related to that oversize old creep. He was so mad that he growled at several of the monks, who shied back away from him.

  Every time Benny thought about how Ledger tried to lord it over him or prove that he was a better fighter than Tom, or knew more than Tom, or could teach better than Tom, it made Benny even madder. He bent and snatched up a big rock and threw it as hard as he could against the side of the nearest of the big gray airplane hangars. The impact made a loud karooom that Benny suddenly realized must have sounded like thunder inside.