This Broken Veil (Ran Book 2)

by Joshua Guess

  Whatever triggered the reaction was in that horrible slide show. I felt the rush, the unnatural giddiness, and suddenly the pain in my wrist was forgettable. An unnerving awareness of the difference hovered around the edges of my mind. I understood logically that just a few seconds before, I had been hesitant and afraid of what might follow. Now I didn’t care at all. Rather than shrink away, I reached out and pulled the nearest zombie toward me and chopped it in the face.

  Onto the pile it went.

  “What are you doing down there?” Garcia shouted.

  I tossed a fourth zombie onto the wall of my growing corpse fort. “Trying not to die. Stop bothering me.”

  The barrier helped, but it also limited visibility. I didn’t see the fifth zombie coming for me in time to keep it from getting a solid grip on my left arm and biting only an inch away from where the other one had. Pain flared up through my wrist and elbow in a bright fountain. My pulse beat against the inside of my skull. My neck throbbed, and when I brought the hatchet around to kill the damn thing, pushing away another zombie with my foot, I noted that the wrist of my weapon hand was dark with black veins. Much darker than was usual, and rarely visible on my limbs.

  But hey! My brain was flooded with violent happiness, so fuck it. Who cared.

  The zombie I’d kicked away managed to latch onto my boot, and bite right through my pant leg. Damned impressive since the stuff was designed to resist that kind of thing. I brought the hatchet around with a backhand, slamming the dull side of it into the zombie’s eye socket. Took five or six hard shots to finally get it to let go, another few to put the zombie out of my misery.

  Two more bodies for the pile. I wondered how many more I could add before the wall of corpses was dense enough to keep me safe.

  Mumbling voices echoed off the ramp as the limp ragdoll forms were pulled away.

  “No way she’s alive,” a male said in a whisper that carried far more than he likely realized.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Garcia replied harshly. Then she saw me. “Oh, my god. Ran?”

  I sat with my back against the truck, exhausted to the point of catatonia. Keeping my eyes open was made possible only through the sickening amount of pain I was in. Time became muddled during the fight as my capacity for rational thought burned away under the strain caused by the Shivers. I’d lost count of the bodies, but I remembered every single bite. Not counting them was impossible. It would be like forgetting how many children I’d given birth to. That last part was a guess, as I had never even been pregnant.

  I was pretty sure childbirth didn’t hurt this much, else the human race would have died out long before.

  “Yo,” I slurred. “It’s as bad as it looks.”

  I had fourteen bites, each blazing like a tiny star. They radiated pain and warmth, though only one of them was truly bad. A zombie had managed to take out a chunk of flesh from my calf. A gash from my own hatchet underlined the round wound, a gift I’d given myself in my desperation to kill the fucking thing.

  “Don’t move,” Garcia said. “We’re gonna get a backboard and put you on it, okay?”

  I nodded drunkenly. “Fuckin’ sweet.”

  The world faded in and out like a bad TV signal. I didn’t lose time as much as the concept became flexible. I wanted to sleep. My survival instinct told me that was a bad idea.

  I wish I could say everything went to black and I woke up being cared for, but I didn’t get an encore of my collapse back at the clinic. I was awake for all of it—being hauled onto the board, strapped down, wounds bumped and brushed in the haste to move me—and every second is etched into my memory.

  Inside the trailer, a few soldiers cursed at the sight of my injuries loudly enough to startle others. Murmured arguments about the bites even led one man to muse out loud whether I should be put out of my misery before I died and turned.

  Doctor Barnes got in the guy’s face.

  “This isn’t a Romero movie,” Barnes said, his finger poking the soldier in the chest. “The bites don’t kill. The infections they cause might.”

  The soldier was angry, a state not made any better by a civilian jabbing him in the tit with a finger. “I’d rather not be stuck in here with her when she dies and turns.”

  “You won’t be,” Barnes said with cold certainty. He turned to Garcia. “Please order this moron to leave. There are other vehicles he can ride in. Ran is my patient, and I’m not letting anyone else hurt her.”

  The world went watery after that. I’m not crying, you are!

  Barnes spoke to me as he worked. “You shouldn’t worry too much. I think you’ll fight off the worst of it on your own. Being a Trigger has some advantages.”

  “Yay,” I said weakly. Barnes smiled.

  “I’m going to have to either strip you or cut sections out of your clothes to treat some of these. You’re covered in gore. I don’t want it to get in the wounds. Have a preference?”

  I tried to smile, but found my reserves of energy too low even for that. “Strip me down. I like these pants.”

  How exhausted was I? So much that I didn’t mind a truck packed with strangers seeing me in my skivvies. Garcia pulled blanket from her pack and tossed it over me for a little privacy, bless her.

  “What was the count?” I asked at some point, mostly to distract myself from the immense discomfort of Barnes scrubbing my wounds clean of debris.

  Garcia, who was acting as his assistant, raised an eyebrow. “You mean how many zombies?”

  I nodded.

  “Between forty and fifty total,” she said. “You killed eight on your own. Everyone in camp already knows what you did, fighting in that tiny space even after you got hurt. I think a couple guys are considering proposals.”

  I laughed, a dry and weak sound closer to a wheeze. Garcia went back to work.

  Have you ever had an experience you knew—just knew—would be one of those defining moments you’d come back to over and over? For a lot of people, they’re things like the birth of a child, a wedding day, the first time they lose someone they care about to an unfair fate like cancer or an accident. Soldiers experience this in combat, doctors and nurses when they confront the reality of their jobs for the first time. Construction workers who fall or nearly fall from high places, garbage men narrowly avoiding being hit by asshole drivers—almost every profession and walk of life has those moments.

  The best way to spot them is by how you react to the memory. Pleasant ones can pull you into a daydream almost effortlessly. The other kind will give you nightmares, startle you at odd moments, and become a part of your everyday life.

  I kept getting flashes of the bites every time Barnes touched one of them. I was too tired for the kind of mental defenses years of practice gave me access to. I couldn’t meditate or count prime numbers in my head. When the doctor worked and the pain flared, I relived the experience all over. It was raw, naked experience. Nerves exposed and being tapped on by a capricious god.

  “I know it hurts. I’m sorry. I’ll be as quick as I can,” Barnes said in a sadly compassionate voice. I let him think the tears were solely from the physical pain.

  Recent lessons drove home the point that yes, arrogance might be my weak point. I’m willing to accept that. But it wasn’t cocky overconfidence that caused me to fall. Just sheer dumb luck. I knew this wasn’t my fault, but it didn’t matter. I’d managed to avoid feeling helpless in that cramped little space. I fought like a devil to stay alive, giving up wounds in the process.

  It was only now that I was safe, surrounded by people to protect me and physicians to care for my injuries that I couldn’t lift a finger in my own defense.

  The flashes kept coming. One after another. Reliving those terrible seconds over.

  And over.

  And over.

  God help me.

  28

  “You look like shit,” Colonel Phillips said when I sat down next to him after a painful hobble.

  I couldn’t help a grimace as I lowered myself
into the camp chair. “With smooth lines like that, I bet you were swimming in ladies. You don’t look like you’re about to run a marathon yourself, you know.”

  He looked down at the bandage circling his thigh. “’Twas but a flesh wound.”

  I put the back of my hand to my forehead and feigned a swoon. “I do love a man who quotes Monty Python. Though that movie is forty years old. You may want to get new material.”

  He grunted. “They’re not making new material anymore.”

  The reminder did a lot to dampen the mood. “Yeah. So why’d you want to talk to me? Not that I mind, but I figured we’d be on our way by now.”

  We weren’t all that far from the fort, maybe a hundred miles. We had stayed the night, and while it was risky, there was no doubt we needed it. Soldiers who suffered injuries in the escape needed tending, and everyone needed rest. No one expected the remaining soldiers at the fort were going to just let us go on about our business.

  “I needed a couple questions answered. Logistical ones,” Phillips said. “We didn’t get out with as much as we planned. I know next to nothing about Bastion.”

  I studied him for a long few seconds. “What do you want to know? At this point I don’t have much choice but to trust you. Consider me an open book.”

  He peppered me with questions, mostly about supplies. Food was the biggest concern, because apparently his soldiers hadn’t been able to load anything close to the volume of rations hoped for.

  “I wouldn’t worry about food,” I said.

  He raised an eyebrow. “You’re stocked up well enough to feed almost a hundred extra mouths?”

  I laughed. “We hit a freaking distribution center, man. What did you think we were grabbing? But even without literal tons of canned food and dry goods, we farm. And in a pinch we can hunt like crazy. Southern Indiana, all the way down to Kentucky if we need to. Food is covered.”

  The colonel looked profoundly relieved. I decided the time was right to address the thing I’d been reluctant to even think about. “I have a question of my own. Something I needed to ask you in private.”

  Our spot was as isolated as we’d get in camp, and Phillips was respected enough by his troops that none of them would come close enough to overhear us without warning. He inclined his head. “Go on.”

  I thought about how to frame it. “I appreciate what you’ve done for me, and I respect how hard it must have been to make the choice you did. But I need to know whether you think you’re going to be in charge when we get home. You and I have to hash that out before we get there.”

  His face hardened in what I took to be a reflex. Men of his age, experience, and position don’t take challenges to their authority well. I knew enough to make a solid guess at the thoughts going through his head. Of course he should be in charge! He was clearly the most qualified. What did a bunch of civilians know about the constant, hellish war that was surviving in this new world? Half a dozen arguments probably sprang to life in his head fully formed, but Phillips was not only smart but self-aware.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  I didn’t smile or smirk, for once. I needed him to know I was dead serious. “I think my people will be incredibly suspicious of you and your motivations for a long time, and that if you try, they’ll all die in the shootout that follows. Along with a healthy percentage of the people here.”

  “Yeah, that makes sense,” he said with a sigh. “I was never a fan of the military coup to begin with, and I really don’t like the idea of taking over something people in my own country managed to build in the ashes. Not sure how comfortable I am ceding control over to you and yours, though.”

  I chewed the inside of my cheek in thought. “Maybe you don’t have to. Not in practice, anyway.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Independence? Don’t think that’d foster much trust.”

  “No, not independence,” I said with a shake of my head. “Autonomy. Our big decisions are made in council. The folks who run the branches of our little government each get a vote in it. I think I can sell adding you as the head of your own branch. That way you have a say in broad policy, influence in the decision-making process, but still get to decide how to carry out your work with no one standing over your shoulder.”

  “When I hear something too good to be true, it almost always is,” he noted. “There’s a ‘but’ I’m not catching.”

  “Yep,” I said. “Everyone gets a vote. Which means my folks will cast one to see if you guys are welcome, another to put you in charge of your soldiers. Considering there are more of you than us, even getting that much without a fistfight breaking out will be a minor miracle. You did steal me away, after all.”

  He sighed. It was a tired sound, but didn’t carry the same notes of exhaustion and stress I’d heard from him before. “I suppose that’s fair. We’ll have to figure out a way to break down that wall and build trust.”

  I snickered. “Shit, that part’s easy.” When he gave me a tolerant look, I rolled my eyes at him. No one lets me build any drama without being a pissy bitch about it. “It’s not like all hundred of you will live separately from us, or be on duty at all times. Your people are gonna work right next to mine, and pull extra shifts until there’s no more yours or mine, just ours.”

  We struck out again after lunch. Between my morning conversation with the colonel and then, we lost two people. One succumbed to an injury she sustained fighting the zombies the day before. Without imaging equipment, no one had any idea her broken rib was sawing into her lung until it was too late.

  The other, in a chilling moment that took everyone by surprise, walked off by himself to use the bathroom and stabbed himself in the throat. No note, no explanation. No matter what high drama would have you believe, death makes sense only a fraction of the time. The rest it’s just sad and confusing and often sudden. I suppose Bastion got lucky; travelers stopping at the tavern reported a higher rate of suicide than the world before Zero. Unsurprising. If you live in hell, it’s bound to have an adverse effect on the will to live.

  Yet as perverse as it sounds, living in hell also forces you to cope with things like random suicide extremely well. Some of the other soldiers said words over the man, taking pains to make sure everyone knew there were no grudges or ill feelings for their fallen brother, then stripped him of everything useful before moving on.

  The rear gate of our trailer was cracked open. Not far enough to give a potential enemy a straight shot inside, just down enough to let in some light and give us a bit of airflow. The body heat of so many people crammed in the space made the chill air welcome. I mean, I personally wanted to murder whoever had the idea right in their stupid face, but that was because I hated the cold. And I was injured. But for everyone else it was great. Just great.

  “I had no idea you were such a giant pussy about the cold,” Garcia said from her now-standard place beside me. I wore her blanket as well as my own. My injuries forced me to lay still as much as possible so I didn’t ruin Barnes’s handiwork.

  “Suck my butt,” I said, displaying my talent for clever wordplay. “I’m not cold-weather compatible. I am made for the sun.”

  “You and me both, sister,” Garcia muttered. “Want me to see if I can find you another blanket?”

  I shook my head. “Nah, it’s fine. I’m already doing my best impression of a burrito here. I think the bites kind of just took it out of me. Usually I run hot.”

  She leaned over, taking a look at my eyes. “Your eyes are glassy. I think you’re developing an infection or something.” She turned her head and looked for someone, but before she could even open her mouth, Barnes was there.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Holy shit,” I said. “Did your spider-sense tingle or something? That was amazing.”

  “We’re in a nine foot wide metal box,” he explained. “I can’t help but be close. Also I was watching you just in case.”

  Garcia gestured at my shroud of scratchy military-issue blankets. “She’
s cold. Doesn’t look great, either.”

  Barnes nodded. “Yes, the process does that. It’s weird as hell, but not surprising.”

  “What process?” I asked.

  The doctor looked at me curiously. “The healing process. Did no one ever mention this to you?” When I shook my head, he made a fussy tsking sound. “It’s not a big deal. You’re fine. It’s just another one of those bizarre things Nero does when it helps you heal. Lowers your body temperature. Where you normally run hot, now you’re running cold. It’ll pass in a couple hours.”

  I scowled up at him. “How many more of these little nuggets are you going to drop on me? Like, tomorrow am I going to start mutating into a spider or something and you’ll just tell me that’s perfectly normal?”

  Barnes grew serious instantly, his eyes drilling into me. “I was hoping that was an isolated case.”

  For a brief moment, an unreasoned, deep dread hit me. It wasn’t logical or rooted in the real world at all. In fact it was only made possible by the crazy left turns everything had taken since Zero.

  Then he cracked and started laughing, and I sacrificed my comfort by extending a hand out of the safety of my blanket and punching him in the chest. “You dick. That’s not funny.”

  Garcia was laughing as well, and much harder than she should have been. “It really was. You should have seen your face.”

  The longer we were on the move, the better I felt. Emotionally, I mean. Physically I felt like what you might generously describe as shit salad. Every mile we put behind us was one closer to home, and like anyone suffering through injury and distance, I got more homesick the closer we came. Isn’t that a weird correlation? Knowing you’re getting close to home creates a resonance in your brain, urging you to go faster, get there sooner. I wanted to curl up with Jem with Nik at our feet and not have to worry about being shot at or bitten for a little while.