Rot & Ruin (13 page)

“Yeah, and pigs can tap dance,” muttered Benny, taking the card. He flipped it over and read the back aloud. “‘Card number 113: Tom Imura. Tom, a resident of Mountainside, is a first-class bounty hunter who prefers to be called a “closure specialist.” He’s known throughout the Rot and Ruin for his quiet manner and lightning fast sword.’”

Benny handed the card back. “I think I’m going to throw up,” he said.

Chong pretended to read off the back of the card. “‘Tom’s brother, Benny, is known throughout the world for his noxious farts and lack of personality.’ Man, they got your number.”

“Get stuffed,” Benny suggested.

Morgie took the card and tried to riff off Chong’s remark, but beyond a few disjointed vulgarities, could come up with nothing biting.

“I am so going to bust Tom on this,” said Benny. “On a Zombie Card for God’s sake. Who does he think he is?”

Chong slid the card into his thick pack. “What’s with you? You’re supposed to be working with him. Didn’t you guys go on some kind of vision-quest thing out into the Ruin? You came back all moody and introspective. What happened?”

“I got over it,” said Benny.

“No, I mean, what happened out there?”

Benny just shook his head.

“Come on, dude,” said Morgie. “Give us all the gory details.”

It was the wrong choice of words, and Benny felt his stomach turn, and his brain started flashing overlapping images of Harold Simmons, the blind eyes of Old Roger, and the squirming torsos of the dismembered zoms in the wagon. Chong caught his change of expression, and before Morgie could say anything, he handed the last unopened pack to Benny.

“Do the honors. Maybe this one will have your own ugly face on it.”

Benny faked a smile and tore open the wax paper. The first few cards were doubles they all had. There was one new one—a celebrity zom that the bio said was Larry King, but Benny couldn’t tell the difference between the before and after pictures. He turned over the last card. It wasn’t a bounty hunter or a famous person who’d gone zom and been bagged and tagged. No, this was one of the elusive Chase Cards—one of only six special cards that showed up so rarely that Benny, Chong, Morgie, and Nix had only two between them.

“What is it?” Morgie asked as he tried to lean closer, but Benny moved the card away. It was a weird reflex action, and even as he did it, Benny suddenly felt as if he stepped out of this moment, this place, and stood somewhere else. Someplace where the wind blew hot and dry, and the birds did not sing in the dying trees; where bones lay bright white on the ground, and the sky was as hard and dark as the bluing on a gun barrel.

Benny stared at the card. Not at the words, but at the image.
It was a girl about his own age, maybe a year older. She wore the rags of old blue jeans and roughly made leather moccasins. Her blouse was torn and patched and too small for her, and the pattern had once been bright with wildflowers, but now was so faded that it looked like flowers seen through mist. She had hair that was so thoroughly sun-bleached, it looked snow-white, and her skin was tanned to a honey brown. The girl wore a man’s leather gun belt, which held a small pistol below her left hip and a knife in a weather-stained sheath on her right. She carried a spear, crudely made from a long piece of quarter-inch black pipe wrapped in leather and topped with the blade from a Marine Corps bayonet. Behind her was a heap of dead zombies. The painting was incredibly lifelike—more like a photo than a painting, but there hadn’t been a working camera for years.

What held Benny’s attention—what riveted him—was her expression. The artist must have known her, because he caught her with a blend of emotions on her beautiful face. Anger, or perhaps defiance, tightened her full lips into an inflexible line. Pride lifted her chin. But her hazel eyes held such a deep and ancient sadness that Benny’s breath caught in his throat. He
knew
that sadness. It haunted his brother’s eyes every day, and since returning from the small village on the mountainside, that sadness darkened the eyes that looked back at him from the bathroom mirror, morning and night.

This girl knew. This girl must have seen some of the things he’d seen. Maybe worse. She’d seen them with eyes that could never see things the way the bounty hunters did. This girl knew, and Benny
knew
that she knew. She knew in ways that Nix couldn’t.

There was no name in the caption bar at the bottom of the card. Just these words: “The Lost Girl.”

Chong leaned over. He started to make a joke, but he caught Benny’s expression and kept his words to himself.

Morgie was a few steps slower to the plate than Chong. He snatched the card out of Benny’s hand. “Mmm, nice rack. Almost as big as Nix’s.”

Benny’s hand moved so fast that it surprised everyone. One second his fingers were open and empty, and the next they were knotted in the front of Morgie’s shirt.

“Give it back,” Benny said in a voice that was more like Tom’s. Older, uncompromising. Hard.

Morgie wore half a smile for half a second, then he saw the look in Benny’s eyes and surprise—tinged with fear and a spoonful of hurt—blossomed in his eyes.

“I … I mean … sure, man,” he said, tripping over the words. “Sure … I was just …”

Benny took the card from between Morgie’s fingers. It was bent but not creased, and Benny smoothed it on his thigh.

“I’m sorry,” Morgie said, completely confused by what had just happened. Benny looked at him without seeing him, then leaned over to peer at the card. Morgie started to say something else, but Chong—out of Benny’s line of sight—gave a tiny shake of his head.

A shadow fell over them, and they looked up to see Zak standing on the top step, staring down at the card. He grunted once, mumbled something unintelligible as he shoved his own cards into his pocket, then clumped down the stairs and headed home.

They ignored him. To Benny, Chong said, “Who is she?”

Benny just shook his head.

“Read the back.”

Benny turned it over and slowly read the small block of printed text.

“‘Chase Card number 3: The Lost Girl. Legends persist about a beautiful girl living wild and alone in the Rot and Ruin. Many have tried to find her, but none have. And some never returned. Who is … the Lost Girl?’”

“Doesn’t tell you much,” said Chong.

Morgie grunted. “Charlie Matthias said she’s just a myth.”

Benny’s head whipped around. “You’ve
heard
of her?”

“Sure. Everyone’s heard of her.”

“I haven’t,” said Benny.

“I haven’t,” said Chong.

“Do you guys even
live
in the same town as me?” said Morgie with exasperation. “We heard about her
years
ago. Little girl with snow-white hair, hiding out in the Ruin, eating bugs and stuff. Completely wild. Can’t speak English or nothing. What’d you call it? Feral?”

Benny shook his head, but Chong said, “Yeah … that’s ringing a faint bell.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Back in the Scouts. Mr. Feeney told us about her. We were, like, nine or something. It was that weekend we all camped out in Lashner’s Field.”

“I was sick,” said Benny. “I had the flu, remember?”

“Riiight,” said Chong slowly.

“What’d Feeney say about her?”

“Nothing much. He told a spooky story about people trapped in a farmhouse with zoms all around. Everyone died,
but the ghost of the youngest daughter keeps haunting the hills, looking for her folks.”

“Uh-uh,” said Morgie, “that wasn’t how it went. The people in the farmhouse kept going out, one by one, to try and get help, but no one ever came back until only the little girl was left. She’s supposed to still be there.”

“I heard she died,” insisted Chong.

“Not according to Mr. Feeney,” said Morgie.

“I remember that she was a ghost. Everybody died in the story I heard.”

“Everybody dies in every story,” said Morgie.

“If everybody died,” said Benny as he turned the card over to look at the picture again, “then who told the story?”

They thought about it. “Maybe one of the trackers found the place and figured it out,” suggested Chong. They considered it. There were several trackers in town, some of whom used to be cops or hunters before First Night.

“No,” said Benny, shaking his head slowly. “No, if she died as a little girl, then why draw her as a teenager?”

Morgie nodded. “And why give her boobs?”

“Jeez, Morgie,” said Chong. “Don’t you think of
anything
else but boobs?”

“No,” Morgie said, looking genuinely surprised. “Why would I?”

Benny turned the card over and stared at the back. In the lower left corner was the artist’s name. “Rob Sacchetto.”

“Hey,” said Chong. “Isn’t that the guy you tried to get a job with? The erosion artist. Has the blue house by the reservoir.”

“Yeah.”

“So go ask him. If he did this, then he must have talked with someone who saw her. I mean … if this is real.”

“It’s real.” Benny shuffled through the rest of the cards. There were only three others that had been painted by Sacchetto. Charlie Matthias. The Motor City Hammer.

And Tom Imura.

“Are you two …,” Morgie began, but before he could finish, Benny was on his feet and heading toward the reservoir on the far side of town. He left the Zombie Cards behind—except for the one with the picture of the Lost Girl.

“What’s his malfunction?” Morgie asked. “What, he fall in love with this chick, just because she’s built?”

Chong said, “Do yourself a favor, Morg. Next time you’re staring at a girl’s boobs, look up. You’ll be shocked to learn it, but there’s going to be a face up there. Nose, mouth, eyes. And behind the eyes is an actual person.”

“Yes, Confucius, I know. Girls are people. Wisdom of the ages. Nix is a girl and therefore a person. I
know
that.”

“Really?” said Chong as he watched Benny vanish around a corner. “Maybe if you looked her in the eyes,
she’d
know that you know.”

He got to his feet, shoved his hands down deep into his pockets, and headed home. Morgie watched him go, wondering what the hell had just happened.

16

T
HERE WAS A SIGN ON A POLE THAT READ
ROB SACCHETTO—EROSION ARTIST
. It hung from two lengths of rusted chain and creaked in the hot western wind. The outside of the house was painted with murals of lush rainforests filled with exotic birds and brightly colored frogs. Benny had barely glanced at the murals when he’d come to apply for a job, but now he lingered to look. The paintings were filled with life—monkeys, insects, flowering plants—but no people.

The artist opened the door on the second knock. He wore low-slung jeans that seemed to be held together by dried paint, and a plaid shirt with the sleeves cut off. His feet were bare, and he had a steaming cup of coffee hooked on one multicolored finger. He peered down at Benny.

“You’re that kid,” he said.

Benny nodded.

“I thought I told you that I couldn’t use you.”

“I’m not here about the job.”

“Okay. Why are you … ?” the artist’s voice trailed off as Benny held out the card. Sacchetto looked at the image and then at Benny.

“Who is she?” Benny asked.

Shutters dropped behind the artist’s eyes. “It’s just a card, kid. They’re sold in every settlement in California.”

“I’ve been out to the Rot and Ruin.” When that didn’t seem to do much, Benny added, “With my brother, Tom.”

Nothing.

“Tom
Imura
.”

The artist studied him, stalling by taking a long sip of his coffee.

“I need to know who she is,” Benny said.

“Why?”

“Because I believe in her. Because she’s real. My friends think she’s dead or that she’s just a ghost story. But I know she’s real.”

“Yeah? How do you know that she’s real?”

“I just know.”

Sacchetto drained his cup. “D’you drink coffee, kid?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll brew another pot. This might take a while.” He wasn’t smiling when he said it, but he stepped back to let Benny enter. The artist paused to look at something that caused his whole body to tense, and Benny turned to see the Motor City Hammer, crossing the street toward the livery stable. However, the Hammer was looking directly at Sacchetto, and he wore a peculiar smile on his ugly face.

The artist’s house was clean but not neat. Sketches were thumbtacked to the walls; partially finished paintings stood on half a dozen easels. A wheeled wooden table held hand-mixed pots of paint. They passed through into a tiny kitchen. Sacchetto waved Benny to a chair while he went to fill the
coffeepot. Every house in Mountainside had an elevated cistern that drew upon the reservoir and rainwater to feed the faucets and toilets. Because of some quirk of luck during the influx of First Night survivors, Mountainside had twenty-three plumbers and only one electrician. In terms of electricity they were a half step out of the Stone Age, but there was always water to flush the john and fill the kettle. Benny was cool with that.

“Tom Imura, huh,” Sacchetto murmured. “I can see it now, but not when you were here the first time. I knew Tom had a little brother, but I always assumed he’d look more Asian.”

Benny nodded. Both of Tom’s parents were Japanese, so Tom had straight black hair, light brown skin, black eyes, and a face that showed only the expressions he wanted it to show. Benny’s mother had been a green-eyed, pale-skinned redhead who looked like every one of her Irish ancestors. Benny got an even split of the genes. His hair was straight, but it was medium brown with red highlights. His eyes were a dark forest green. His skin was pale, but he took a good tan. However, where Tom’s body was toned to a muscular leanness, Benny was merely lean.

“We’re half brothers,” he explained.

The artist digested that. “And he took you out into the Ruin?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I guess I’m his apprentice now. I’m fifteen.”

“Did he take you to Sunset Hollow?”

“No, but he mentioned it. Or … someone mentioned it to us. I don’t know what it is, though.”