Last Rites (29 page)

“You too.”

Tucking the bomb under her arm, Lucy waited a moment. She didn’t jump as much when the machine gun fired again, and she took that as her signal to go. The guard was tearing up another of the wooden shields as Lucy tottered out and made her way toward the fence. She angled to the right, then turned a little and ran faster to the left, trying to make it a bit harder for them to cut her in two with their weapons.

As she reached the fence, she slid on her side and crammed the package under the barrier, right at the base of the guard tower. Scrambling to her feet, she trotted back, trailing the string behind her. She had reached the end of the cord when a spray of bullets splashed in the puddles next to her.

Lucy turned and slipped, falling to the side as a bullet tore into the left side of her chest. Fuck—if the string had come undone, then she’d just be scrambling around there in the mud until a bullet found her head and ended it. At least it wouldn’t take long, and at least she wouldn’t have to see her friends killed or worry anymore about Truman. The wound in her chest hurt more than she expected, a burning she didn’t think she could feel anymore. She let out a howl of hatred and blame as she twisted on the ground and yanked the string.

The explosion was so loud, it made Lucy wonder if she’d be able to hear again. That’d suck worse than being all the way dead—not knowing what people were saying, not being able to understand them or have warning of danger, not being able to play or hear music. All this raced through her mind as she heard a muffled, groaning sound and screams, followed by the guard tower crashing right next to her, bits of debris hitting her face, dust and dirt stinging her eye.

Lucy got up slowly. Nothing felt broken as she brushed herself off. The wreckage of the tower spread out next to her. Looking back, she saw the fence was torn open, too. Near her, an arm stuck out of the shattered wooden pieces of the tower, and a groaning now came from that direction. Farther away, she saw another limb in the rubble, but that one stayed silent and still. Lucy walked over and cleared the pieces off the nearest body. One of the guards, face down, moving a little. At her mercy. She nudged him with her foot as she growled. This didn’t feel like running around with a bomb. This felt right.

He tried to move his hand toward the automatic on his belt, causing Lucy to pounce on him. She bit into his wrist, the blood so hot and sweet on her lips, the scream so high and helpless—all of it perfect and intoxicating to her. She ground her teeth down, feeling the bones crack, and wrenched her head side to side to rend his arm into bloody shreds and jagged bits of bone.

Letting go of his wrist, Lucy wriggled up to lie on top of him. He’d turned his head a bit, so she could see his one terror-stricken, tear-filled eye, and his mud-smeared face. She bent lower. He whimpered and kicked his legs, but couldn’t move.

“Don’t fucking try to point a gun at me!” she shrieked, and her bloody lips were so close to his face that a pink spray hit his cheek and eye. “You fucking understand me? You’ll never hurt me or my friends again—
ever
!”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he cried before falling into uncontrollable, inarticulate sobs.

Sorry? He thought that was supposed to do something, that was supposed to make up for something? The funny thing was, Lucy felt it did make this whole exchange different, somehow. She licked her lips and savored the taste of blood a little more, but knew all the thrill and joy of it had gone for the moment. Too bad, but she knew it was true. Now she had to proceed more delicately and deliberately.

“Sorry?” she hissed. “You don’t want to tell me what a great ass I have? You don’t want to see my tit nice and up close now? What’s wrong, bay-bee?” She bent closer and drew out the last word deliciously. The guard started squirming so frantically at that, she thought he’d wriggle out from under her, or pass out from breathing so fast and shallow.

“No! No!” he squealed. “That was Bob! Not me! Not me!”

Shit. Just like them to lie, of course. It was second nature to them, even when their lives weren’t at stake. And thinking she had a lying little lecherous coward right next to her almost made Lucy tear the back of his neck open with her teeth. Ah, the thrashing he’d make as she tore through the muscles and into the vertebrae. He’d buck under her like they were fucking, shudder and howl at the moment when it was finished. God, that’d feel so damned good. Gripping the back of his head, pressing his face into the dirt, a part of Lucy wanted it so much it nearly overwhelmed her. But as he cried and quivered under her, the flame of that desire gradually subsided in her. She wasn’t even sure this was the one who’d tormented her or not. Damn—she should’ve been more observant, but mostly she’d tried to avoid looking at them. The living usually looked pretty much alike, anyway. Even if it were the right one—what was it she felt needed to be done to him now? She paused and considered again how this should unfold.

Lucy leaned closer. “No? Not you?”

“No! No!” He sniffled, paused. “Wait—you can talk? How?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I learned. Twice, I guess. Hard work, too, the second time.”

Lucy took her attention from him as she heard the other dead getting closer. Ben was closest, with a large crowd behind and all around, inching toward Lucy and the guard. He twisted, saw them, and started screaming and wriggling under her again.

“No! No!” he screamed. “Please, no! You can talk! You can understand! You’re not like them! Save me!”

“Shhh,” Lucy said, reaching around to get the automatic out of its holster. “They understand, too, don’t worry.”

Lucy had watched Will servicing weapons many times—disassembling them, cleaning them. He’d noticed her watching and shown her the basic workings. He was better about sharing information like that than Rachel was, and Lucy again felt herself hoping—almost in spite of herself—that they were all right, too. Lucy racked the slide on the automatic and made sure the safety was off, then lifted the barrel.

“We need a minute here,” Lucy said. “You all owe me that.”

Ben smiled. “Yeah, we do,” he said. He gestured to the others to hold back. “First dibs for our hero, Lucy!” he shouted, laughing. The crowd joined in, with a pained, grumbling sort of guffaw, but after only a moment their look of hunger returned, redoubled, and Lucy knew she’d only have a very little while to transact whatever it was she felt, inchoately, needed to be done there on the ground that morning.

She kept her eye on the crowd, but leaned close to the guard again. “What’s your name?” she whispered.

“What? T-T-Tom,” he stammered. He was shaking all over now, constantly shivering under her as she leaned her body on his back.

Even though she knew it’d probably terrify him into blubbering incoherence, Lucy couldn’t help herself as she licked the back of his neck—a long, raspy raking of her dry, hard tongue up his spine. Soft and greasy, with a nice tickling from the hairs, but a little bitter. He’d put on too much of that smelly stuff. What was it called? Lucy remembered it was called perfume when girls wore it, but she’d forgotten what its name was when guys put it on. Tom squealed and almost seemed to go into convulsions at her touch, but she didn’t really blame him for that. He was guilty of a lot of things, whoever he was, but disgust and terror were not under his control and she wouldn’t hold those weaknesses against him.

“Quiet, Tom,” she said, sitting up more and letting the residual blood in her mouth overpower the bitterness she’d just tasted. “We don’t have long. You’re going to die in a minute. They’ll be quick about it, but it’ll hurt a lot, I’m sure.”

“No, you can stop them! Please!” he dragged out the last word into a wail.

“I can’t. We both know that. I’m not going to lie to you.”

He could only sob softly at this.

“My name’s Lucy, by the way.”

He sniffled and his crying diminished enough for him to say, “Okay.”

“I had a name, all those times you humiliated me, degraded me, made me feel like worthless shit.”

“No! No, I told you—that wasn’t me!” He again fell to crying, this time high pitched and uncontrollable.

“Shh, Tom, don’t get so upset. I’m not mad about that. We already said you’re going to die now. Really soon. I’m giving you a chance not to have a lie as the last thing you say.” She was bluffing, as she still wasn’t sure it was him, but it wasn’t like any of the guards were nice, so he should come clean, whoever he was, and about whatever he’d been up to.

Pause. “You won’t get mad again? You won’t hurt me?”

“No, Tom. That’s what they’re gonna do, and they don’t care what you say now. They’re not really listening. But I am. If you want to say something, say it. It’s totally up to you. This ends the same way, regardless.”

Pause. “It was me.” Pause. “I didn’t know you could feel. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” Lucy ran her hand through his hair. It felt nice. Dead people’s hair had gotten so dry and stiff, like straw. And so faded, too. This was deliciously soft, and such a shiny, light brown, like the fur of a frightened, quivering bunny. She could feel his revulsion again at her touch, though it was much less this time, just a barely perceptible tensing under her.

“Tom, they’re gonna start soon,” Lucy continued after a moment, seeing the crowd jostling one another, hearing their moans and shrieks. “I can put the gun in your hand and you can finish it, if you want. I’d do that for you. I trust you.”

He writhed under her and groaned. “I can’t move either hand. I couldn’t hold it.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” She half wished she hadn’t bitten his wrist now, but doubted he would’ve said all that needed to be said if she hadn’t.

“I feel cold.” Pause. “You do it. Please.”

Lucy looked at the gun. Nasty looking thing. It was different when Will handled them. He was so handsome to begin with, and so innocent as well, that he lent a certain peaceful glow even to such evil implements. But Lucy now felt the influence running the other way, like the weapon’s cold brutality was infectious and creeping up her arm. She pressed the muzzle to the back of Tom’s head and again wondered at how the living could ruin everything, even something as simple and glorious as killing, with their metallic, efficient, noisy tools.

“Are you sure?” she whispered. Some in the crowd started hooting and jumping up and down, seemingly disappointed that their meal would be silent and motionless.

“Yes. Please. Please.”

“All right. I’m sorry.”

“I know. Thank you. Thank you.”

Lucy gritted her teeth and closed her eye against the ugly, loud blast. Her ears still rang and her knees ached as she hauled herself to her feet and handed the gun to Christine. She was glad to feel the metal slip from her hand, though she winced as the tearing and snarling started behind her.

Turning toward the hole in the fence, Lucy thought of how everything that had just occurred seemed to have an odd, inevitable grace about it, perhaps because she’d planned none of it when she first had fallen on the guard. Christine and Carole joined her in shuffling from the compound, and she wondered how many other such moments she hadn’t noticed before or since her death.

The Dead End didn’t look so mysterious and inviting in the early morning light. It looked mostly dirty and broken. Not even delightfully naughty and dangerous, but pathetic. The smells were decidedly worse in the daytime, too—more putrid and pungent—and Rachel again felt a wave of nausea. She hadn’t eaten in nearly a day, and the hunger pangs compounded the discomfort. But there was nothing to be done about it now.

“Damn, the place looks so different in the daylight,” she said as they made their way among the displays. “Now I don’t know where the tent was where I saw Truman.”

Turning down one alley, they were confronted by the most incongruous crowd of undead Rachel had ever seen. Half of them were small children dressed in strange green and red outfits, and the other half were naked young women. The whole crowd was having a good deal of trouble moving because of their footwear. The children had on shoes with long, curved toes, and they kept tripping over one another, while the women wore high heels that made them totter and fall in the mud. None of them seemed particularly to mind, however, but they batted playfully at one another and gave grunts and huffs that sounded something like laughter. It was impossible for Rachel not to be mesmerized by the scene, and then smirk at its harmless absurdity.

Only one dead woman took any notice of the two living newcomers, as she rose from the mass of wrestling undead. She was a corpulent woman with a huge head of auburn hair. A leather corset partly covered her body, though her crotch was bare and her enormous breasts spilled out over the top of her garment. As she stumbled toward them with a growl, Rachel could see someone had trimmed her pubic hair in the shape of a heart—a rather large one, too, the top of which fell just short of her belly button. Though the dead woman bared her teeth and snarled, Rachel couldn’t help laughing.

Will pulled Rachel back. “Come on,” he said. “We’ll go another way.”

They’d started down a different path, the leather-clad woman following at a distance, when a dead man emerged from another one of the tents. Though not as funny as the fat woman, he seemed less aggressive or threatening. He kept trying to shuffle some cards as he staggered along. If he dropped a card, he’d slowly bend down to retrieve it before trying again and taking another step. Will and Rachel gave him some room as they continued their retreat and he made no move to attack or follow them.