Rot & Ruin (14 page)

“If Tom didn’t tell you, then it’s not for me to do it,” said Sacchetto, taking two clean mugs from the cupboard. Before Benny could press him on it, the artist said, “What did you see out there?”

“I don’t know if I should talk about it.”

“Kid, here’s the deal. You tell me about the Ruin, about what you saw out there. About what Tom
showed
you, and I’ll tell you about the Lost Girl.”

Benny thought about it. The smell of brewing coffee filled the little kitchen. The artist leaned back against the sink, arms folded across his chest, and waited.

“Okay,” said Benny, and he told the artist everything. It was the same story he told Nix. The artist was a good listener, interrupting only to clarify a point and to press him for more precise descriptions of the three bounty hunters who had been torturing the zoms. Sacchetto was on his second cup of coffee by the time Benny finished. The coffee in Benny’s cup was untouched and cold.

When Benny was finished, the artist sat back in his chair and studied Benny with pursed lips.

“I think you’re telling me the truth,” he said.

“You
think
? Why would I lie about stuff like that?”

“Oh, hell, kid. People lie to me all the time. Even when they don’t have a reason to. Folks that want an erosion portrait but don’t have a photo of their loved one tend to exaggerate so much, the picture comes out looking like either Brad or Angelina.”

“Who?”

“Doesn’t matter. Point is, people lie a lot. Sometimes out of habit. Not many people are good at telling the truth. But
what I meant just now was that nearly everybody who comes back from the Ruin, lies about what they’ve seen.”

“What kind of people?”

“You see? That’s the kind of question that makes me think you’ve actually
been
there. Most people would ask, ‘What kind of lies?’ You see the difference?”

Benny thought he did. “Tom says that people here in town want to believe their own version of the truth.”

“Yes, they do. They don’t want to know the truth and even when they say that they do, they don’t ask the right questions.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are a lot of very obvious questions about our world that nobody around here seems to want to ask.”

“Like why we don’t expand the town?” suggested Benny.

“Uh-huh.”

“And … why don’t we try and—what’s the word?—
reclaim
what we lost. I know. Since we got back I’ve been thinking a lot about that.”

“I’ll bet you have. You’re Tom’s brother after all.”

“Okay, now what about that? After what happened, I guess my opinion about Tom has changed a bit.”

“But … ?”

“But I still don’t understand why everyone thinks Tom is so tough. He’s even on one of the Zombie Cards.”

“You haven’t seem him in action?”

“All I saw was him do was hog-tie one skinny zom.”

“That’s it?”

“Sure. He ran away from the three bounty hunters.”

“‘Ran away,’” echoed the artist, looking amused. “Tom Imura, running away.” He suddenly threw his head back and
laughed for a whole minute, his thin body shaking, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. He slapped the tabletop over and over again until the cold coffee in Benny’s cup jumped and spilled.

“Holy crap, kid.” Sacchetto gasped when he could talk. “God! I haven’t laughed that hard since Mayor Kirsch’s outdoor shower blew away in the Santa Ana, leaving him standing stark naked with soap dripping off his—”

“What’s so freaking funny?” interrupted Benny.

The artist held up his hands in a “sorry” gesture, palms out. “It’s just that anyone who knows your brother, I mean, really
knows
him, is going to react the same way if you tell them that Tom Imura was afraid of anything.”

“He ran away. …”

“He ran away because you were there, kid. Believe me, if he’d been alone …” He left the rest unsaid.

“You don’t live with him,” Benny said irritably. “You don’t know what I know. You don’t know what I’ve seen.”

Sacchetto shrugged. “That pretty much goes both ways. You don’t know what I know. Or what I’ve seen.”

They sat there for half a minute, both of them re-evaluating things and trying to find a doorway back into the conversation.

Finally, the artist said, “The Lost Girl. My end of the bargain.”

“The Lost Girl,” Benny agreed. “Tell me that she’s real.”

“She’s real.”

Benny closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and looked down at the card. “Tell me she’s alive.”

“
That
I can’t say for sure,” said Sacchetto, but when Benny looked up at him, his eyes filling with dread, the artist shook his head. “No, I mean that I can’t
say for sure how she is today, this minute. But she was alive and well a couple of months ago.”

“How do you know?” demanded Benny.

“Because I saw her,” said the artist.

“You … saw her?”

“Once, just for a minute. Maybe half a minute, but yeah, I saw her out in the Ruin, and I came back and painted her. Tom helped me remember a few details, but that card there … That’s her to a tee.”

“You were with Tom when you saw her?”

Sacchetto paused, his fingers beating a tattoo on the tabletop. “Look, I know I promised to tell you, and I will, but I think I’m only going to tell you some of it. The rest … Well, maybe you better hear that from your brother.”

“From Tom? Why?”

The artist cleared his throat. “Because Tom’s been hunting her for five years.”

17

T
HE ARTIST POURED HIMSELF A THIRD CUP OF COFFEE, THOUGHT ABOUT IT,
then got up and fetched a bottle of bourbon from a cupboard and poured a healthy shot into his cup. He didn’t offer the bottle to Benny, who was fine with that. The stuff smelled like old socks.

“I grew up in Canada,” Sacchetto said. “Toronto. I came to the States when I was fresh out of art school, and for a while I made money doing quick portraits of tourists on the boardwalk in Venice Beach. Then I took a couple of courses in forensic art, and landed a job working for the Los Angeles Police Department. You know, doing sketches of runaways, of suspects. That sort of stuff. I was always good at asking the right questions, so I could get inside the head of a witness to a crime or a family member who was looking for someone. And I never forget a face. I was in a police station on First Night. Lots of cops around me, lots of guns. It’s how I survived.”

Benny didn’t know how this was going to relate to the Lost Girl, but the artist was in gear now, and he didn’t want to interrupt the man’s flow. He placed the card on the table between them, and sat back to listen.

Sacchetto sipped his spiked coffee, hissed, and plunged back in.

“You grew up after, kid, so all you know about is this world. The world
after
. And I know you’ve probably learned a lot about the world before the Fall in school or from hearing people talk. So you probably have a sense of it, but that’s really not the same thing as having belonged to that world. You live here in town, with a slice of what’s left of the population. What’s our head count at the New Year’s census? Eight thousand? When I was working on the boardwalk, I’d see three times that many people just sprawled in the sand, soaking up the sun. The freeways were packed with tens of thousands of cars, horns blaring, people yelling. I used to hate the crowd, hate the noise. But … man, once it was all gone—I’ve missed it every day since. The world is too quiet now.”

Benny nodded, but he didn’t agree. There was always something happening in town, always some noise or chatter. The only quiet he’d heard was out in the Ruin.

“When the dead rose … The noise changed from the sound of life in constant motion to the sound of the dying in panicked flight. I heard the first screams just as the sun was setting. A guy in the drunk tank died from a beating he’d gotten when he’d been mugged. I guess the cops didn’t realize how hurt he was. They thought he was asleep on the bunk, didn’t know he was dead. Then he woke up, if that’s the right word. ‘Resurrected’ is closer, I guess. Or maybe there should have been new words for it. If there’d been time, if the world had lasted longer, I’m sure there would have been all sorts of new words, new slang. Thing is, the zoms—they weren’t really ‘back’ from the dead, you know? They
were
the dead. It’s
been fourteen years, and the idea still won’t fit into my head.” He closed his eyes for a moment, looking inward—or backward—at images that even his artist’s imagination could not reconcile.

“The Lost Girl,” Benny prompted gently.

“Right. That was later. Let me get to it how I need to get to it, because one thing leads to another, and if I tell it out of order, you might not understand.” He took another sip of coffee. “The guy in the cell started biting the other drunks. Everybody was screaming. The cops thought they had a nutcase on their hands, so they did what they were trained to do: They unlocked the cell to try and break up the fight. But by then at least one or two of the other drunks were dead from bites to their throats or arteries. It was a mess—blood all over the walls and floor, grown men screaming, cops shouting. But I just stood there, staring. All of the colors, you know? The bright red. The pale white of bloodless skin. The gray lips and black eyes. The blue of the police uniforms. The blue-white arcs of electricity as they used Tasers. In a weird, sick way it was beautiful. Yeah, I can see the look in your eyes, and I know how crazy that sounds, but I’m an artist. I guess we’re all a little crazy. I see things the way I see them. Besides, I was around death and dying all the time. I was around pain and loss all the time. This was so
real
, so immediate. Even working with the police, I’d never been there at the moment a crime was committed … and here it was. Murder and mayhem being played out in all the colors in my paint box. I was transfixed. I couldn’t move. And then the dead drunks woke up, and they started biting the cops. After that … The colors blurred, and I don’t remember much except that there was screaming and gunfire.
The younger cops and all of the support staff—the people who weren’t street cops—they went crazy. Screaming, running, crashing into one another.

“It made it easier for the dead to catch them, and the more people they bit, the more the situation went all to hell. A cop I knew—a woman named Terri—grabbed my sleeve and pulled me away a second before one of the zombies could take a bite out of me. She shoved me down a side hall—the hall that led to the parking lot. She told me to get into my car and get the motor running. Then she turned and went back down the hall to get some other people out.” He sighed. “I never saw her again. All I heard was gunfire and the moans of the dead.”

“Is that where it all started?” Benny asked.

The artist shrugged. “I don’t think so. Over the years you talk to people, and you hear a hundred stories about how it all started. You know what I really think?”

Benny shook his head.

“I think that it doesn’t matter one little bit. It happened. The dead rose, we fell. We lost the war and we lost the world. End of story.
How
it happened doesn’t matter much to anyone anymore. We’re living next door to the apocalypse, kid. It’s right on the other side of that big fence. The Rot and Ruin is the
real
world. Our town isn’t anything more than the last bits of mankind’s dream, and we’re stuck here until we die off.”

“You always this depressing or is it that crap you poured in your coffee?”

Sacchetto tilted his head to one side and stared at Benny for a ten count before a slow smile formed on his mouth. “Subtlety’s not your bag, is it, kid?”

“It’s not that,” said Benny. “It’s just that I’m fifteen, and I
have this crazy idea I might actually have a life in front of me. I don’t see how it’s going to do me much good to believe that the world is over and this is just an epilogue.”

Sacchetto chuckled. “You’re smarter than I thought you were. Maybe I should have given you the job.”

“I don’t want it anymore. I just want to know about the Lost Girl.”

“And I’m wandering around everywhere but in the direction of the point, is that it?”

Benny gave an “if the shoe fits” kind of shrug.

“Okay, okay. Long story short, I got the hell out of Dodge.”

“‘Dodge’?”

“Out of LA. No one else came out of the police station … At least no one alive. After I sat in my car for ten minutes, I saw the desk sergeant come shambling out. His face was smeared with red, and he was holding something in his hands. I think it was a leg. He was taking bites out of it. I spewed my lunch out the side window, backed the hell up, spun the wheel, and burned half a block’s worth of rubber getting out of there. I had three quarters of a tank of gas, and I was driving a small car, so I made it pretty far. To this day I couldn’t tell you the route I took getting out of LA. The streets were already going crazy, but I beat the traffic jams that totally locked down the city. Someone told me later that thousands of people were trapped in their cars on blocked streets and that the dead just came up and … Well, it was like a buffet.” He shook his head, sipped some coffee, and continued. “I passed under a wave of army helicopters flying in formation toward downtown. Had to be a hundred of them. Even with the windows closed and the sound of rotors, I could hear the gunfire as they opened up on
the city. When my car ran out of gas, I was actually surprised. I was in shock. I never even looked at the gauge. I ran the tank dry and then started running. I got to a farmhouse and met up with some other people, other refugees. Fifteen of us at first. This was around midnight now. By dawn there were seven left. One of the refugees had a bite, you see, and we still weren’t connecting the bites with whatever was going on. To us it still wasn’t the ‘dead’ rising. We thought it was an infection that made people go crazy and act violent.

“A few people had cell phones, but everyone they called was just as confused as they were. All the lines to police or government were jammed or were down. People kept trying, though. We were all conditioned to believe that our little phones and PDAs would always keep us connected, that they’d always be a pathway to a solution. I guess you don’t even know what those things are, but it doesn’t matter. The batteries eventually ran down, and as you
do
know, help never came. Everybody was in the same mess.