Fire & Ash (11 page)

The only other thing of apparent importance he found was a small spiral-bound notebook. Every page was filled with small, crabbed handwriting. Most of what was written there were prayers and rituals of the reapers. Benny debated tossing it away, but decided to keep it. If the reapers were the enemy, then some of Tom’s advice applied:
Know your enemy. The more you know about them, the less easily they can surprise you. And by studying them you might identify a weakness or vulnerability.

And there was the phrase Lilah had learned from George, the man who’d raised her:
Knowledge is power.

The other reason he decided to keep the notebook was what the reaper had written on the last page. It was a kind of code:

CA/R 1: 4,522

Quad: 66

CA/R 2: 19,200

Quad: 452

NV/R: 14,795

Quad: 318

WY/R: 8,371

Quad: 19

UT/R: 2,375

Every instinct, every nerve he possessed screamed at him that this was important. This, the Teambook, and the urgent note Benny suspected had been written by Dr. McReady. Important . . . but in what way?

How?

No way to ask the reaper now,
Benny thought, and he flinched at the memory of what he had been forced to do.

He put the notebook in his pocket and the Teambook into the Honda’s storage bin. Then he used the rubber hose to siphon ethanol from his own crippled quad into the Honda’s tank. Benny replaced the gas cap, climbed into the saddle, started the engine, and drove thoughtfully back to Sanctuary.

FROM NIX’S JOURNAL

The people I grew up with, the folks in Mountainside, call the start of the plague First Night. It’s kind of misleading, because it took weeks for civilization to break down.

Riot and the people she was with call it the Fall.

I’ve also heard people call it the End, the Gray Rapture, the Rising, Z-Day, Armageddon, the Apocalypse, the Punishment, the Retribution, Plague Day, War Day One, and other stuff.

26

R
IOT WAS DOZING IN A
straw basket-chair when one of the nuns came to find her. She opened her eyes to see the tight, unsmiling face of Sister Hannahlily, the head nun who oversaw the children during their afternoon nap.

“You have to come at once,” said the nun.

“What’s wrong?” Riot demanded. “Is something wrong with Eve?”

The nun seemed to be caught in a moment of terrible indecision, as if uncertain how to answer so simple a question.

“You need to come,” she said. “Right now.”

Riot got to her feet and followed the nun. Sister Hannahlily did not exactly run to the tent used for the children’s nap time, but she walked very fast, her body erect with tension, arms pumping.

“Oh God,” breathed Riot to herself, “don’t let that little girl be hurt. Don’t let her be hurt. . . .”

They reached the tent, where Brother Michael, a monk who helped with psychological counseling, was waiting for them. Before First Night he’d been a radio call-in host.

“What in tarnation is going on?” asked Riot.

Sister Hannahlily looked frightened, and Riot couldn’t
imagine why. There was a faint sound coming from inside the tent, a soft thudding sound that Riot could not make sense of, like someone fluffing a pillow.

“We moved the other children out of the tent,” said Sister Hannahlily. “We thought it best.”

“Moved them out? Why? Where’s Eve?”

“Inside,” said the monk.

Riot reached for the tent flap.

Eve was the only person in the tent. Riot could tell almost at once that the little girl was asleep, though she was standing and moving. Sleepwalking, in a way. In a horrible way.

The girl had gathered all the rag dolls the children had made during arts and crafts. They lay side by side on one of the cots. Eve held a pair of the pinking shears used to cut the fancy, frilly trim for the dollies’ dresses. She held the shears in both hands and with slow, determined, deliberate swings of her entire body, she stabbed the dolls over and over and over again.

And she smiled as she did it.

Riot gasped, and Eve paused for a moment, turning her face toward the open tent flap. The little girl’s mouth smiled, but there was no humor in her eyes. There was nothing in her eyes. No emotion, no recognition, no anger.

There was absolutely nothing.

It was as if those blue eyes looked in on a house that was empty of all light and life, a place where only dark and awful shadows moved.

Then Eve turned back to the dolls.

The shears rose and fell, rose and fell.

27

T
HREE MONTHS AGO
 . . .

Saint John came out of a long private meditation when he heard a quiet footfall nearby. “Good afternoon, Sister Sun,” he said quietly, eyes still closed.

“Honored One,” she said.

Saint John opened his eyes and touched her head, murmuring a small blessing. She straightened up and sat where he indicated. Sister Sun had once been a lovely woman, and she still had deeply intelligent eyes and a face that reminded him of paintings he’d seen of Ma Gu, the ancient Korean goddess of longevity. It was a bitter irony, of course, since she had so little time left in front of her. Months, not years. He never commented on the resemblance, of course, because he felt it might offend her in a spiritual sense to be reminded of a goddess from one of mankind’s many false religions.

Instead he said, “You look troubled, sister.”

“I am. There have been more reports about mutations. More of the gray people who can move faster than should be possible.”

“How many cases?”

“Seven, which brings the total number of reliable reports to twenty-two.”

“And this continues to disturb you?”

“Yes, Honored One. We will be moving the reapers back into Nevada soon, and I asked Mother Rose if it wasn’t time for us to consider opening the shrine.”

“What would you have us do, sister?” asked Saint John. “Use the weapons of the heretics?”

Sister Sun took a moment on that. “Honored One . . . I love my fellow reapers, but I’m not fool enough to think that all of them are with us out of an undying love of Thanatos—all praise his darkness. Some of them—maybe a lot of them—are opportunists who chose to kiss the knife rather than feel its caress on their flesh.”

Saint John did not comment on that.

“But I wasn’t making a case with Mother Rose for the weapons aboard that plane,” she said. “I only want access to Dr. McReady’s notes, samples, and clinical studies and—”

Before she could say more, her body was racked by a coughing fit that was deep and wet. It made her frail body hitch and pulse with pain, and her bird-thin bones creaked. She pressed a red kerchief to her mouth. Saint John was aware that red cloth was chosen because it more effectively hid the droplets of blood torn from her with each barking cough.

“The darkness calls out to you, my sister,” said Saint John.

When she could speak, she said, “Praise to the darkness. But please, listen to me. I’m almost out of time. Look at me, Honored One. To read and process that research takes more than a healthy mind, and when my body fails my mind will go too. The Night Church will lose a valuable opportunity
to understand why this plague is changing and what those changes will mean for our mission. I don’t know how much longer I can do reliable work.”

“The plague is the plague,” he said. “It is no threat to our god’s plans.”

“I believe it has become a very real threat,” Sister Sun said. “The pathogen that started the plague was really an amalgam of several super-viruses and some genetically engineered parasites. As you know, this was not something nature—or god—created. The Reaper Plague was a weapon of war, however—”

Saint John interrupted. “No. It was the voice of god whispering in the ears of certain people. They were told to create the plague as a way of cleansing the earth of the infection of life. The Reaper Plague was the sword of god, and it is from that sword that I took the name for the servants of god whose knives open the red mouths in the last of the sinners.”

They rose and walked in silence for a while. Finally Sister Sun spoke. “Honored One, that is a theological discussion, and I defer to your holy insights. However, the matter of Dr. McReady’s research is a more . . . um, mundane matter. It’s science.”

“Yes, I do understand that. She wants to stop the Reaper Plague,” observed Saint John. “Dr. McReady is an enemy of god, and her works are blasphemy.”

“No doubt,” said Sister Sun quickly. “My point, Honored One, is that the pathogen may have become unstable.”

“Don’t all living things change?”

“Not this,” she insisted. “The Reaper Plague—from everything I learned about it before kneeling to kiss the knife—was designed
not
to mutate. This is a bioweapon, a designer
plague. It was designed to remain stable so that the outcome of any implementation could be precisely predicted. That means that if the plague is mutating, it isn’t happening naturally. Someone is causing that mutation. And I think we both know who.”

They walked well beyond the perimeter of the reaper camp before Saint John spoke. “What danger do you foresee from a mutation?”

“If the gray people mutate into something that would prey on the reapers, wouldn’t that send the wrong message to our people? We tell the reapers that the gray people are like sheep and we are shepherds, but that would change. We’d become hunted. The message would get mixed, and that could hurt us. It would weaken our control. It might shake the faith of the people.”

“Or,” said Saint John, “it could test that faith.”

“Dr. McReady’s research is far too dangerous to leave unaddressed. We must act. We must find her.”

“Our best guess is that Dr. McReady is somewhere in California,” mused Saint John. “Or perhaps Oregon. If she’s still alive, then explain to me how her experiments hundreds of miles away could be causing mutations here.”

“Honored One . . . I think
we
may have caused this.”

“How so?”

“When Mother Rose found the plane, there were many things aboard. The gray people she’d captured, the medical records, biological samples, and bags of some red powder. I was never allowed to examine any of this. However, I know that one of Mother Rose’s reapers opened one of the bags of powder. Probably out of idle curiosity. He found nothing of
value and dumped that bag out of the hatch. If I’m right, then it may have contained a mutagenic agent of some kind. It would explain the mutations that we’ve been seeing, because they all began
after
that bag was opened.”

Saint John frowned. “That’s disturbing.”

“I think McReady had compounded a mutagen and was taking it to Sanctuary for development and possible mass production.”

“Ah . . . Sanctuary,” murmured Saint John. “The time may come when it will be necessary to burn that pestilential place from the surface of the earth.”

“They have a whole army division there.”

“Do they?”

“It’s what our spies say.”

He gave a soft grunt.

“If I had access to McReady’s research,” continued Sister Sun, “I might be able to do something about the mutations. Possibly stop them. Or maybe devise another kind of mutation. Something that would serve the Night Church rather than pose a threat to it.”

Saint John pursed his lips but said nothing.

“Please,” begged Sister Sun softly, “let me have access to McReady’s research.”

28

N
IX SAT ON A SWING
, arms looped around the chains, toes dug into the sand so that the swing moved only a few inches back and forth. The adrenaline in her bloodstream had begun to wash out, and it seemed to be taking all her energy with it, leaving her exhausted and sad.

Seeing Eve did not make that sadness retreat one inch.

The little girl was dozing in Riot’s arms, but Eve’s brow was furrowed. Nix could imagine what her dreams were like.

When she closed her own eyes, Nix saw Charlie Pink-eye and the Motor City Hammer crowd her mother into a corner and begin beating her. That memory was the very last Nix had of her mother. Right after that Charlie knocked her unconscious. By the time she regained consciousness, Nix was already in the Ruin on the way to Gameland. And her mother was dead. Found too late and quieted by Tom Imura.

Would her dreams ever go away?

Nix doubted it.

She worried about it too. Grief and anger were changing her, warping her. For months she had been mean to Benny—the one person who loved her unconditionally. She felt shrewish at times, and vicious.

Only recently had that begun to change, and Nix didn’t know why.

She still had her nightmares. And in her troubled sleep she probably furrowed her brow as Eve was doing now. She knew she ground her teeth—her jaws always hurt in the morning.

How does one come back from that edge? What was that saying from Nietzsche?

Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.

Nix wished she didn’t understand what that meant.

Riot caught her looking at Eve, and for a long moment the two of them stared at each other, saying so much without words. Riot slowly nodded, and Nix nodded back.

She understands too.

And Lilah.

Benny, too, now that Tom was gone.

And Chong?

He hadn’t wanted to come along on this journey. The jet didn’t matter to him. He left home for love, and in the wilderness he stumbled along all the way to the edge of the abyss.

Was Chong already lost? Was he a monster?

If you fought monsters and then became one . . . could you ever go back again? Or did the abyss own Chong . . . and Eve?

And all of them?

29

T
WO MONTHS AGO
 . . .

Saint John leaned against a tree, peeling a fig with a small knife, enjoying the sensation of the blade sliding just beneath the skin of the fruit. He wondered, not for the first time, if fruit could feel pain. If it could scream. Even a simple fig would taste so much better if that were the case.