All this in less than a second. Much less.
The man grunted again. Not pain, satisfaction.
"Did… did you kill him?"
That was Buck. Finally finding words. Christopher realized that none of them had even seen where Aaron was firing from. Only the hunter. And he had seen enough to place a single shot that somehow Buck believed had found its mark.
Come to think of it, so did Christopher.
The man in the ghillie suit stood. Only the smallest of noises to indicate what had to be agony tearing through his body.
"We should go now," he said, and took off his hood. Christopher's jaw fell open, and he suddenly understood how a man could withstand the pain of two gunshot wounds. And not only that, but find it in himself to aim and shoot a gun with what Christopher sensed was perfect accuracy.
"Holy good mother of holy hell," he said. Not his most original as far as cursing went, but it would have to do.
The newcomer grinned at him. Or kept grinning, because he had been smiling when the hood came off. "Yes," he said. "I do get that a lot."
5
The hunter – that was how Christopher thought of him now – looked into the distance, upstream on the canal. The direction he had fired. "Please follow me quickly," he said.
"So you didn't kill him," said Buck. He sounded crestfallen.
How things change, thought Christopher. Aaron used to be our main protector, Ken used to be our leader. Now Aaron is just one more killer on our trail. And our leader?
He glanced at Ken's body. Couldn't help it.
Still motionless. Eyes open, staring up in an eerie parallel to the strange gaze of his children. Mouth open like theirs.
But he wasn't breathing. Silent, still, and never to move again.
Christopher looked away as the newcomer said, "No. I did not kill him. I did shoot him in the shoulder. I thought it was the fair thing." He grimaced and rolled his own shoulder, twisting his arm in the socket. Blood pulsed through the suit. "I would like to take care of this before I lose too much blood and pass out."
He said it matter-of-factly.
Of course he did. You would, too, if you looked like that.
Christopher couldn't tear his gaze away from the man. The beard was long and gray. Did look just as much like that of a Grateful Dead roadie as he had imagine it would. But any resemblance to a toked-out rocker ended at the bristly line of the man's facial hair.
That was where the tattoos began.
Gray so dark it was almost black, the tattoos swirled in maze-like lines that combined graceful arcs and sharp jags. Covering nose, cheeks, forehead. Even the man's ears bore the marks, which Christopher saw were not smooth like normal tattoos but rather furrowed as though the patterns had been carved into the man's leathery skin.
"You Māori?" said Buck.
The man nodded. "Half. May we hold the rest of the questions until we get to my home?"
Without waiting for a reply, the man went to Maggie. Still kneeling in the mud. No longer screaming, but gasping raggedly, silently. Christopher almost preferred the screams. Ken's wife –
(widow)
– sounded like she was trying desperately to keep breathing. Like her body was forcing itself to cling to life, to remind itself that it hadn't died with her husband.
"Young Miss," said the hunter. Maggie didn't answer. "Young Miss, we must go."
She kept panting, broken breaths tearing through her throat and mouth. Didn't speak, didn't even seem to see anything. She just stared at the spot where her husband had first fallen. Had died. Not at his body, but at the place where she had last seen him alive.
The hunter sighed. He touched her. She didn't respond. He took her arm. She screamed.
"Your friend will get up soon," he said. Christopher couldn't tell for whom the statement was intended, if the hunter was talking to Maggie or to the rest of the company.
"How do you know?" said Buck.
"Because he is very strong."
"How do you know that?" said Buck. A trace of that perma-annoyed sound creeping back into his voice. Christopher was actually glad to hear it. It meant the dude wasn't mind-blown. And as much as he whined he was actually a clear head in a crisis and pretty good in a fight.
"I know because anyone who can hit me twice with a handgun at that range in a storm is skilled. And great skill is usually a traveling companion of great strength."
The Māori pulled gently on Maggie's arm. She continued gasping, but allowed him to drag her upward. Blood gouted from his shoulder. He grunted.
Buck moved to Maggie's side. "Let me," he said.
The hunter nodded. He slung his rifle again. Finally looked at Sally. The snow leopard remained near Liz, staring at the Māori with a sour expression. As though the big cat was aware of the presence of another hunter, and didn't like the competition.
The Māori seemed to take the cat in stride, just asking, "Is the kitty housebroken?"
Christopher shrugged. "Who's gonna complain if he's not?"
The hunter laughed. It was a deep, full belly laugh. For a moment there wasn't a killer somewhere nearby, monsters ever at their heels. Just a laugh that was big and good and cleaner than the rain that still fell. "This is true," he said.
He started walking. Blood running down the front of the ghillie suit, red on green like the world's shaggiest Christmas tree. Had to be agony, but he set a punishing pace across the fields north of the canal.
"Where are we going?" said Buck. The big man hitched Hope a bit higher on his shoulder.
The Māori didn't look back. Just said, "I already told you. We are going to my home."
Christopher looked around. Nothing but fields. Mountains, but they were miles away. The hunter was right: Aaron was sure to get up. And follow.
The group had to get away.
But there was nowhere to go.
6
They moved in silence. Only Maggie's ragged breathing and the patter of rain and the occasional muffled thud of faraway thunder accompanied them as they slogged through the fields.
The first field held scallions, the smell of onion crisp and piercing in the wet air. Then the company crossed a narrow dirt road – more of a track – and entered another field, this one harder to navigate. Asparagus grew on this one: long lines of green clumped on mounds that rose almost to Christopher's knees.
The hunter continued his punishing pace. Buck followed as close as he could, dragging Maggie with him, Liz still in her carrier, the snow leopard following close behind.
The hunter did not look back to see if the others were keeping up. Christopher sensed no cruelty in this, though. He thought it was more a combination of necessity and faith. Like the Māori knew they needed to get away before Aaron got up and came for them; knew that the company had survived this long and would continue to both keep together and keep up with him.
Maggie said something. Christopher couldn't hear what at first. He hurried to her, worried she was going to break down.
"We have to go back, we have to go back," she murmured.
The hunter shook his head. "We cannot, Young Miss," he said. "It is not safe."
"He's still back there."
The man's voice was low. Firm, strong, but understanding. "Your husband?"
Maggie sobbed. Answer enough.
Christopher expected the Māori to tell her to move on, to hurry, to focus on survival. The man surprised him. He stopped. Turned and put his hands on Maggie's shoulders. "The dead are already safe," he whispered. "It is the living who need to be protected." He pointed at Lizzy, the toddler still hanging off Maggie's back like some strange parasite. Sally licked the little girl's dangling feet. "You need to take care of your girl." Then he smiled. "And we will come back for your husband."
Maggie's gasps stopped suddenly. "What?" said Buck.
"The living must be protected," said the hunter. "But the dead will be honored."
He turned and resumed walking.
Maggie followed
. Not with Buck, but walking on her own.
Christopher looked at Buck. The big man, gray hair hanging over a face that was red and puckered in a perpetual scowl, seemed utterly at a loss for words.
"What the hell did that mean?" said Buck.
"Hell if I know," said Christopher. "And watch your mouth." He nodded at Maggie, rapidly moving away with the hunter. He grinned. "You know damn well how she gets."
"Damn right I do." Buck actually grinned back.
They shrugged at each other then, neither of them sure what was happening. Nothing new there. But every time Christopher thought he was at least getting a handle on how crazy the world had gotten, a new kind of crazy arose.
Zombies? Check. Sure. Why not?
But wait! They also barf acid and scale slick walls with some kind of suction cup hands.
Oh… and shooting them in the head just pisses them off. In fact, cut them in little pieces and the pieces come after you.
Oh… and they seem to be learning. Acting in tandem, like pack animals that get smarter every second.
Oh… and the dead don't all stay dead. They're just sleeper cells for the enemy, cadavers that can also rise up to become zombies. Slower than the ones that are turned because of bites, slightly less strong. But deadly. Capable of killing or Changing their prey.
Oh… and there are the ones that can't see, that have weird growths on their faces that cover their eyes and heads and parts of their bodies, but they can still track you somehow.
Oh… and there are the ones whose faces have become buzz saws that can cut through steel.
Oh… and then there are the ones like Dorcas and Ken's son, Derek, and Christopher's own baby: zombies who targeted the members of the group and tried to drive them to despair.
Oh… and the people you trust – good people, people who really want what's best – they might try to kill you.
Oh… and the world ending wasn't enough. There's always more. Always more to lose.
Just like they had lost Ken. The man who had given them a quest, who had somehow seemed to hold them together.
But death isn't the thing to fear. Damnation is what's around the corner.
Christopher grappled with his thoughts, trying to pull them away from the brink of despair. From the look on his face, Buck was doing the same.
They both looked away from one another. Swung back toward the hunter and Maggie.
Only they weren't there.
Or anywhere else.
They were gone.
7
Christopher started running.
"Where are they?" shouted Buck. He started moving, too, but Christopher knew the older man would be slower, holding Hope close to him, protecting her with his body.
Christopher vaulted over a mound of asparagus.
And almost fell onto the hunter.
The man laughed as he caught Christopher, then laughed again at the look on Buck's face as the big man clambered over the ridge of crops and saw where Maggie had gone. Where Christopher had fallen.
"Where did that come from?" said Buck.
Christopher was right there with him. Could feel his face knotting up in a mixture of surprise, confusion, and irritation at the obvious delight the Māori was taking in his discomposure.
"It has been here always. Or for some years, at the least." The man gestured for Buck to follow him, then moved away. Still holding Maggie by the arm. She had stopped gasping, but now seemed worse than she had been moments before. Nearly catatonic. Not good.
Christopher looked away from them as they disappeared. Glanced at Buck. The big man shook his head and shrugged at the same time. A gesture that said, "I don't know, what do you think?" Christopher returned the motion. Then spun and followed Maggie and the Māori.
The dirt between this row of asparagus and the next was a bit wider than most. It had to be, to accommodate the opening on the ground. A trapdoor was propped open on what looked like a hydraulic system. The door itself was thick, probably steel, shiny on the underside. The upper surface was mottled and gray, crafted to look like a flat boulder, half-buried in hard earth. Some kind of blast hatch, Christopher figured. And from the look of it, one that was designed to be more or less undetectable from above and impregnable from any side.
The tunnel under the door was circular, made of corrugated steel. A pipe, big enough to stand in, but only just. The pipe angled down, metal stairs making for easy walking, though the angle itself seemed strange: a gentle slope that was less than the typical stairway.
The Māori was walking slowly, either because of Maggie or so he could show the others the way down. Sally moved just ahead of them, his tail flicking up to touch Liz's toes from time to time. And as before the hunter showed no interest in the snow leopard.
"The angle of the tunnel is thirty degrees, so as to deflect gamma radiation," said the Māori. He waited until Buck was well inside the tunnel, then hit a bright yellow button on the wall. Something whirred and the hatch shut. "The blast hatch is rated to withstand fire, direct explosive attack, electromagnetic pulse, and radiation."
"How much does this tour cost?" said Christopher. The quip made it out before he could think of the wisdom of making fun of a man who was a crack shot and who had just effectively buried them beneath a ton of steel.
"A person who mistreats his guest has a dusty Marae," responded the man. He turned and continued down.
"What did that mean?" whispered Buck.
Christopher nodded in what he hoped was a wise way. He had no idea what the hunter was talking about, but he knew that seeming to know would drive Buck bonkers.
It's the little pleasures that matter when you're buried at the edge of the world's end.
He followed their savior, their host. And hoped the man would not also prove to be their captor.
8
Christopher had heard of survivalist types, of course. The type of people who secreted themselves in the wilds of Nowhere, U.S.A., along with caches of freeze-dried foods and assault rifles big enough to fight off invading armies and/or zombie hordes. He had always thought the idea a ridiculous one. Had laughed at them.
Who's laughing now?
Still, the idea he had of a survivalist bunker hardly matched what he saw when the hunter took them through the entry tunnel into what must be the main part of the underground shelter.
Christopher expected dark gray walls, fluorescents lights protected by steel cages. Bunk beds with paper-thin mattresses that were covered by burlap bedding designed less for warmth than exfoliation.
Instead he got a living room.
The space was about twenty feet square. Walls that curved gently inward, making it clear that they had gone from one pipe to another, much larger, one. But they were painted a pleasant powder blue. A brown leather couch with forest green throw pillows sat next to a matching love seat, both of them angled so the flatscreen television on the opposite wall could be easily seen. Between them a nice oriental carpet covered a clean tile floor.
At the far end of the room, cabinets stacked against the wall. Again, they were far from the utilitarian metal shelving Christopher would have expected. Well-crafted walnut with brass fittings.
The cabinets created a ring around another blast hatch – closed – and in front of them sat a round table with four chairs. The tabletop was green felt, and looked like the type that could be removed and flipped over to reveal a checkerboard on the inside: a poker and gaming table.
"Holy cow," said Christopher. "You go to Hell in style."
The Māori helped Maggie onto the couch. She sank down, seeing nothing but empty space. At least, Christopher hoped that was what she was seeing. Worse would be if she was trapped in a place where all that existed was an endless loop of her husband, chest exploding, blood spurting then slowing to nothing as he bled out.
Please let her be somewhere else.
"Who are you, Mister?" said Buck. He put Hope down next to her mother. Neither the little girl, the baby, nor the mother mo
ved. A frozen tableau that gave Christopher the creeps. So did Buck's question, an eerie echo of something they had asked of Aaron: "Who are you?" The cowboy was a military man, a soldier, a killer. A friend and enemy at once. And would this new hunter prove to be the same kind of person? This same mix of light and dark?
Sally lay down at Maggie's feet. Stretched out on his belly, licking his forepaws clean of the mud that had dared soil them.
"I am Mohonri Moriankumr Ngata," said the man. He bowed slightly at the waist, then hung his hunting rifle from a pair of hooks on the wall above the poker table and began to strip off his ghillie suit.
"Mohonri Mor… Mor… Moria…." Buck struggled with the second part of the name for a few moments before giving up.
"Moriankumr," said the Māori. "Most people just call me Mo."
Christopher blinked. His father had been governor of Idaho before the Change. Before half the world turned to zombies and killed the other half. His parents had attacked each other right in front of him; had been a bloody mass of twitching tissue when he ran from their house.
Not that they liked each other before it all happened.
But because of who his father was, Christopher recognized the name. It belonged to one of the largest voting blocs in the state, and one his father had taken care to cultivate. Governor Elgin had been a terrible father, but a good politician. He knew how to make friends with his constituents, and Christopher kept his ears open at the dinner table – on those rare occasions when he was allowed to eat with His Greatnessness. One of the Men of Power who had dined at his father's table had this name – one that some would laugh at, had the man not been worth so many millions.
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