Flesh & Bone (24 page)

Using her knife, she’d cut three of the straightest branches she could reach, then shaved off the twigs and smaller branches and trimmed the branches into four-foot-long poles. Then she removed her canvas vest, stowed the last useful items in her pants pockets, and cut the vest into many long strips. Once all the cutting and trimming was done, Lilah placed the crossbar
of the knife between the poles and lashed it all together with turn after turn of canvas. Lilah knew a great deal about knots and binding. She preferred soft leather—deer hide was best—but a smart warrior used the resources at hand rather than wasting time longing for what she did not have.

It was a painstaking process, but Lilah did not hurry. A mistake in preparation would guarantee failure. The result of her work was a kind of long-handled ax. The blade of the knife protruded at a right angle from the tip of the ax, and a piece of hard, knotty wood was lashed to the back end to create a club. As long as the poles and bindings held, she could chop and smash.

The hogs crashed into the tree again.

Lilah climbed carefully down, limb by limb, until she stood on a stout branch seven feet above the circle of dead boars. They stopped ramming the tree and glared up at her, and Lilah’s smile flickered. There was intelligence in those eyes. Not human intelligence, but the cold and calculating intelligence of a predator. Animal cunning. Animal hate.

Why? And . . . how? The zombie plague, whatever it was, erased all intelligence when it reanimated the dead body. Right?

It was a problem she would have to think about later. Now she needed her entire mind to be focused on what would happen in the next few seconds.

Lilah tested the bindings, looking for loose knots and weak points. There were none.

A vagary of wind brought sounds to her, and she lifted her head to listen. Were there voices? Yells? She listened and
listened, but all she really heard was the white noise of the endlessly moving trees and the chatter of birds and monkeys.

“Warrior smart,” she told herself.

And then she took her ax in both hands and jumped.

46

“A
RE YOU DEAD
?”

Chong heard the voice coming from somewhere beyond the darkness in which he floated. A girl’s voice.

Nix? No, it was a harder voice.

Lilah? Definitely not. Lilah’s voice was always a smoky whisper.

“Yo!” said the voice. “You in there, boy?” This time the voice was accompanied by a sharp poke in his shoulder.

He said, “Ow.”

“Okay, then y’all’s not dead.”

She had a thick accent and pronounced it
dayud
.

Chong licked his lips. “Delighted to hear it,” he said. There was a cool cloth across his eyes, and he had no desire to remove it. If he did, then he would have to face the reality of where he was, and he was not quite ready for that. He felt absolutely terrible. Weakness was the worst part, and it seemed to go all the way down to his bones. He wanted to sleep. Not here; at home. The best thing in the world would be to be curled up in his bed on the second floor of his family’s A-frame house. Maybe Mom would come and tuck the blankets in around him and kiss him on the head in that way
she always did, even when he was too big to be tucked in. Moms are moms, they did that sort of thing. It would be nice, too. Being tucked in by his mom would chase all the monsters away. A little kiss to make the pain go away too; to help him drift off to sleep.

That would be real nice.

But that was a different world. Mom probably thought that he was dead by now. Her skinny, bookish son lost out in the Rot and Ruin. Would she be sitting on the edge of his empty bed right now, crying, her heart broken? Would she be praying that her son wasn’t a zom shambling forever through the decaying wasteland?

“Hey,” said the girl, poking him a second time.

“Please stop doing that.”

The cloth was whipped away, and Chong reluctantly opened his eyes.

Riot sat beside him. She had cleaned the blood from her face.

“You asked if I was dead,” he said. His voice was thick. “Should I be dead? Am I dying?”

“Well,” said the girl, “you got shot, boy, so put that in the pot and see if it’s soup.”

“Ah,” he said, bracing himself for the return of his memories. Brother Andrew, the archer. Carter and Sarah.

The black-tipped arrow.

“Riot . . . ?” he said slowly. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Well,” she said, “look at you being sharp as a new blade of grass.”

She studied him with eyes that were older than the face in which they were set. There was wisdom there, and a cunning
that looked every bit as sharp as Lilah’s, but there was something else, something that Chong always saw in Lilah’s eyes. Sadness. Not new grief, but an older sadness that ran so deep it was as much a part of this girl as her skin. A sadness that was aware of itself and knew that it had nowhere to go.

They were inside what looked to be an old shack. Bare walls, a wood beam ceiling draped with spiderwebs.

“What else do y’all remember?” asked Riot.

“All of it, I suppose.” Then he gasped. “Eve! What happened to her? Please, tell me that they—”

“She’s here,” said Riot quietly. “Keep your voice down. She’s sleeping.”

Chong turned his head and saw a tiny figure curled up under a thin blanket in the far corner. He made as if to sit up in order to see her better, but a meteor of pain slammed into him. He started to scream, but Riot instantly clapped a hand over his mouth, stifling the sound before it could escape. She bent close and whispered in his ear.

“If y’all wake that little girl yonder, I’ll give you something to scream about, boy. We clear on that?”

Chong took in a ragged breath through his nose. Even that was an effort. He felt thin, hollow, like he was more ghost than person. He stared into her eyes and saw that there was more fear than threat there.

He nodded.

Riot studied him for a moment, returned his nod, and slowly removed her hand. She sat back on her heels.

Chong very carefully gasped in a lungful of air. The pain subsided slowly.

“Poor kid saw her mommy and daddy cut down in front
of her,” murmured Riot. “Hasn’t said a word since. Not a peep. She ain’t ever gonna be right after something like that, but at least we can let her sleep some. It’ll be a mite easier trying to grapple hold of things when she’s not dead-dog tired.”

Chong nodded. “She’s still young . . . maybe she won’t remember all of it.”

Riot gave him a strange, sad look. “Nobody’s that young.”

“You see something like that too?”

She shrugged. “I’ve seen some things.”

He waited, but she didn’t elaborate. He looked around. “Where are we?”

“Old ranger station, I think. Brought you here on a quad I filched from one of the reapers who clear don’t need it no more.”

He cleared his throat. He was bare-chested, and he glanced down at the feathered end of the arrow that stood up straight from his flesh. It was low, just inside the hip bone. He touched the feathers ever so lightly. “What do we do about . . . um . . . this?”

“Unless you like the look of it, we’s going to have to git ’er out. Your shirt was all bloody so I cut it off ya.”

“Ah.”

“Wound’s a funny color and it smells, which bothers me ’cause that’s too fast for ordinary infection. So I packed some stuff around the entry and exit holes—spiderwebs and moss and suchlike. Keeps it from going septic.”

Chong nodded; he knew something about natural medicines. These days everyone did, and he’d read several survival manuals during the Warrior Smart training. Sphagnum moss
had acidic and antibacterial properties; spiderwebs, apart from also being antibacterial, were rich in vitamin K and helped blood to clot. Chong found it comforting that this girl knew her natural medicines. Out in the Ruin, infection was every bit as dangerous as zoms and wild animals.

Over in one corner was a small fire, and some herbs were steeping in a shallow pan of water. The bow and quiver of arrows that had once belonged to Brother Danny lay on the floor. Souvenirs of an encounter Chong would rather have forgotten.

“How . . . how bad is it?” he asked cautiously. “How bad am I hurt?”

“You ain’t dead, so that’s something. Arrow missed most of the good stuff, and you ain’t spittin’ blood or nuthin’.”

“Hooray?” he muttered weakly, making it almost a question.

“On the downside, you lost about a bucket of blood, boy, and you didn’t do yourself any favors when you grappled hold of Andrew back there. I wouldn’ta bet a dead possum on you making it this long, you being such a skinny boy an’ all. But there’s some pepper in your grits.”

“Thanks. I think.” He closed his eyes for a second as a wave of nausea swept through him. His skin felt greasy and clammy. “Can you just pull it out?”

Riot snorted and bent down to pick up Brother Danny’s quiver of arrows. She fished one of the arrows out and held up the point. “That arrow’s got the same barbed point as this. Big bear tip. I’d tear a flank steak offa you if I tried to pull it out. That what you want, boy?”

“No. And will you please stop calling me ‘boy’?”

“What do you want me to call you?” she asked, her eyes filled with challenge and amusement.

“My name is Louis Chong. Most people just call me Chong.”

“Chong, huh. That Korean?”

“Chinese.”

“Okay. Well, t’other thing is that I don’t know what this black stuff is that’s smeared all over the tip. Smells like death, and that’s generally not good news.”

“Poison?”

“Or something,” she said. “Either way, we have to be smart about how we take it out and what we do about infection.”

He cocked his head at her and licked his lips. “Why are you helping me? Back there at the field, you and your friends seemed pretty determined to . . . you know.”

“Yeah, I do know, and we’d have done it too.”

“I believe you. So . . . why the change of heart? Not that I’m looking to make you question your decisions.”

Riot glanced at Eve for a moment. “Evie told me that you and your friends—the cute boy with the sword and that red-headed witch—saved her from the gray people. That earned you some real points.”

“It didn’t look that way back on the field. I remember you trying to take our weapons and supplies.”

Riot shrugged. “Times is tough, ain’t you heard? Apocalypse an’ all.” She rubbed her face. “You also tried to save Sarah and Eve from Brother Andrew. Almost died doing it. Cartin’ you here and plucking out an arrow seems the least I can do.”

“Brother Andrew,” Chong repeated with a confused shake
of the head. “Who the heck are these reapers and why are they doing all this?” he asked. “I mean, I heard Andrew and Carter talking, so I think I understand some of it. Is it some kind of cult thing? Some religious cult?”

Riot considered the questions. “It’s religious,” she admitted. “Don’t know much about ‘cults.’ But this is something real, and it’s big.”

She explained about Saint John and his belief that the Gray Plague had been a kind of “rapture,” and that anyone left behind was a sinner. Saint John formed the reapers to usher those left behind into the darkness.

“Darkness? What’s that? Heaven?”

“Don’t rightly know. Saint John says that it’s the place where pain and sufferin’ don’t exist no more. He never said anything about pearly gates or none of that stuff.”

“And people join him?”

A strange light kindled in her eyes. “Oh, yes they do. By the hundreds and by the thousands.”

Chong thought about it. “Brother Andrew said a lot of things about how hard it is to survive out here. All the disease and hunger, not to mention the zoms.”

“Zoms? Oh, you mean the zees. Nobody much calls ’em zoms, ’cept the odd trader or ranger. Mostly it’s ‘gray people,’ ‘gray wanderers.’ All the same.”

“So . . . let me see if I understand this,” said Chong. “People are eager to join the reapers and embrace the ‘darkness’ because this world is too hard to live in? Is that about it?”

She nodded. “It ain’t as simple as that, but you got the bones of it. If all you know is suffering and fear, and next year looks to be just as bad, and the year after that and the year
after that . . . who wouldn’t take a hard look at an offer of no pain, no suffering?”

Chong sighed. “I’d say it was the craziest thing I ever heard of, but it’s actually not. Those who want to go see God can do it right now, and those who want to find some kind of redemption—or maybe some kind of important purpose—can join the reapers and do God’s work before they head off to join their loved ones.”

Riot gave him a long, appraising look. “Ain’t stupid, are ya?”

“I try not to be.”

He suddenly swayed as another wave of nausea churned through him. He fought to control the urge to vomit.

“You okay?”

“I’ve felt better. Little woozy. Sick to my stomach.”

Riot placed her palm on his forehead. “You’re sweatin’ up a storm, but I don’t feel no fever. You’re sick as a dog.”

“Arrows in my body tend to do that to me,” Chong said.

“Ah,” she said. “So I heard.”

Riot bent close and studied the arrowhead. “That is a beaut.”

“Swell.” Chong could actually feel his body turn cold. “Since we can’t, um, yank it out . . . what are our options?”

“It’s an aluminum arrow,” she said, nodding toward the shaft. “So I’ll try and unscrew the head, and then we can pull it out backwards-like. Might jostle a bit, which is why I wanted you awake ’fore I try. Can’t have you waking up screaming.”

“No, we can’t have that.”

She nodded at his bare shoulder. “What’s that?”

Chong did not need to look to see what she meant. There was a fresh scar from where a zombie had tried to take a
bite out of him in one of the fighting pits at Gameland. He explained that to Riot.

“You was a pit fighter?’

“Not by choice.”

“And you got bit and healed?” She looked dubious.

“The zom’s teeth just pinched, and I pulled away at the same time. I lost some skin, but I didn’t get infected.”

“You got the luck. Bit by a gray wanderer and lived to brag on it, and now shot by a reaper and you’ll have that scar to use to charm the ladies. Is . . . there a lady, by the way? Maybe that little redhead with the freckles?”