“It’s validation,” said Church.
Dahlia frowned. “Of what?”
“Of himself,” he said as they began climbing a steep hill. He moved well for his age, but she could see that he moved with care. “Neeko hasn’t received a lot of support in his life; he was never properly nurtured. Abusive homes are like that. He was told that he was worthless so often by the authority figures in his life that he came to accept that as an inarguable truth.” Church took hold of a sturdy maple sapling and used it to pull himself up onto flat ground. “You started that process, Dahlia. You trusted him as a scout and praised him for the things he did right.”
She scrambled up after him, only slightly winded from the climb. Beneath her extra pounds was a lot of useful muscle. The weapons and tools she wore were all in padded holsters or sheaths, and Church had taught her how to move through the woods without making noise or leaving sign of her passage. She felt a little like a girl version of the ranger, Strider, from The Fellowship of the Ring.
“I was hard on Neeko when he screwed up, though,” she said.
Church shook his head. “From what he said, you corrected him pretty sternly, but there’s nothing wrong with that. You needed him to be safe and you wanted his intel to be accurate. That’s discipline, not abuse.”
She started to argue, but let it go. She never won those kinds of arguments with the old man. They moved deeper into the woods. Old oaks and sycamores rose high above them and the air was filled with bees and butterflies. Clouds hid the sun and cast the forest in a softness of gray-brown shadows.
“Neeko will continue to mature and grow stronger,” Church said after a moment. “I have high hopes for him.”
“He deserves to survive,” she said, and was surprised at her own words.
Church turned to her. “Most people deserve to survive,” he said. “More importantly, most people deserve some measure of enduring happiness. Even now. Even after all of this.”
Dahlia studied him for a long while. “You don’t look happy.”
Church turned away. “I said that most people deserve happiness. Not everyone.”
She asked him what that meant, but he didn’t answer. Instead they walked for nearly an hour though the forest. Finally, he checked the angle of the sun and told her to continue the patrol while he went back to camp to give another lesson to the some of the newer recruits.
When she was alone, Dahlia felt strangely vulnerable and had to work to shake that off. It was easy to lean on Church, or lean close to his power, and she did not want that. Nor, she suspected, did the old man. He wanted her to be strong and self-reliant. Sometimes that was like pushing a rock uphill. Easy at first, but every time she paused for a breath it got heavy and wanted to roll down.
Like her ego. Like her feeling of personal power.
She spent a little time mentally telling herself to grow the fuck up and get a fucking clue.
Then she began moving through the woods again.
Beyond a stand of trees ahead of her there was a patch of brighter light. Not sunlight, but less of a canopy of leaves to block the glare from the cloudy sky. Dahlia removed her compact binoculars and adjusted the focus, seeing a patch of dusty black. A road. When she shifted the binoculars again she saw that there were three figures on that road. People . . . though it was impossible to tell more than that.
Dahlia nearly cried out when she saw them, and if the sound had escaped it would have been a scream. She bit down on it, clamped it in.
Trash was there.
He was right fucking there.
Talking with two other people. She wanted to keep staring at Trash, but she forced herself to follow her training. Learn everything about a situation that you can, Church had told her. Don’t be distracted by any one thing.
So she forced herself to study the other men with her former lover, and Dahlia immediately felt a sudden coldness grip her. The men were older, in their thirties, dressed in camouflage clothing that had a military or paramilitary feel to them. Lots of gun belts with bulging ammunition pouches; lots of knives. Lots of guns. Each wore at least one holstered handgun and held automatic rifles. One had a combat shotgun slung over his shoulder. They looked hard and hardened, as if the end of the world had driven them away from all traces of ordinary humanity. Their eyes were cold, their mouths smiling but without humor. One of them, a big man with enormous shoulders and what looked like shrapnel scars on his face, wore a necklace of some kind around his bull neck. It took Dahlia a long time to understand what was wrong with the necklace. It was big and chunky, set with oversized and unusual stones.
Except they weren’t stones at all.
She tightened the focus on the binoculars and stared in horror.
The necklace was strung with human ears.
Forty-one of them.
The man to his right wore a similar necklace, though his was made up of thumbs. Some of them looked fresh. Dahlia’s heart hammered in her chest. She stared through the lenses at the grisly objects. If the world was still kind, if the world had not torn free of the hinges of sanity, then those trophies would have all been caked with blood that was as black as night. With the blood of the dead.
But the world was offering no mercy that day. It offered no kindness and the very air seemed to babble with madness. The blood—dried now to a chocolatey brown—was not from the infected. It was human blood.
Then the day, already spiraling down toward darkness, got so much worse. Trash said something to the men, then turned and pointed into the woods.
Pointing to where Old Man Church’s camp was.
Pointing to where Dahlia lived.
— 21 —
THE WARRIOR WOMAN
Rachael thought they’d found a model for heaven in the World After, but instead she found hell.
Catching back up with Claudia and Jason, Rachael had filled them in on what she’d found out and they’d shared their own grim stories. They’d managed to talk to more than one of the non-residents; evidently their own skin colors made it easier for the workers to trust them. With each new story things got worse. Rachael felt sick. Finally she walked with her friends back to their temporary home, but after grabbing her dagger and tucking it into her belt under her shirt, she told them she was going out again.
“I want to see if I can talk to Tommy’s parents.”
It took a little wandering to locate their home again, but she found Tommy outside drawing on their walkway with colored chalk. He gave a friendly wave when he saw her. Ruffling his hair, she asked, “How are you doing, kiddo?”
“I had a bad dream about the Apple Man,” he said sadly, but then shrugged, going back to his chalk drawing, the trauma of the previous day easily forgotten.
His father answered the door, a handsome Caucasian man in his early forties. There were some soft lines at the corner of his blue eyes and hints of gray beginning to shade his temples. He looked untouched by any of the horrors outside the walls of Happy Valley.
He frowned when he saw her. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Rachael. My friends and I brought Tommy home yesterday.”
At that, he smiled and shook her hand emphatically. “You’re the girl who saved him! I’m Will Manners. Please, come in. My wife will want to thank you.”
He gestured with one arm, waving her inside. She stepped across the threshold gingerly, feeling out of place as soon as she entered. A beautiful grandfather clock, expensive pieces of art, and artfully arranged flowers decorated the interior, and that was just the entrance hall.
Brushing her wavy brown hair out of her face, Rachael looked around with a smile, putting on a pleasant mask to disguise her feelings.
She followed Will through an extravagantly decorated living room to a large kitchen, all black granite and stainless steel; marveling at how neat and clean everything was. Too clean, especially for a family with a child living in a world at war with the dead.
A petite blonde woman, hair in a perfectly trimmed bob, was a
t the sink, arranging flowers in an Oriental vase. She turned as Will and Rachael entered, face registering polite surprise at the presence of a stranger in her kitchen.
“Will?” she asked, confused.
“This is Rachael, Abigail. She’s the girl who saved Thomas.”
Abigail Manners nearly knocked Rachael over with the force of her hug. Tears welled up in her large blue eyes as she squeezed Rachael tightly. “Oh, thank you. Thank you! You saved our boy . . . you saved my Tommy. How can we ever repay you for what you did?”
Rachael patted her back awkwardly, not sure how else to handle the crying woman. When Tommy’s mother finally released her from the hug, Rachael said, “I have a few questions about Happy Valley and was hoping you could answer them for me.”
“Oh, of course! Please, sit down.” Abigail gestured to the dinette on the side of the kitchen, carefully set with more flowers.
Rachael nodded graciously and took a seat, smiling her thanks as Will set a bottle of soda down in front of her, popping the cap off it, and one of his own before sitting across from her. Abigail sat down next to him, grabbing for his hand and holding it tightly as if she was afraid to lose him too.
Both of them looked as stereotypically upper-class suburban as Rachael could imagine. Will in his striped polo and pressed khaki slacks, Abigail in a soft pink cardigan over a white blouse. These were people accustomed to comfort, to a certain standard of living. She doubted they’d last a day outside the walls of Happy Valley, though one thing that Rachael had learned over the last six months was that people could and would surprise you.
She thought about what Paloma had told her.
People could and would surprise you, for good or for bad.
“So what can we do you for?” Will asked in a hearty voice that grated against Rachael’s ears.
“I’d really just like to know how you like living here. Are you some of the original residents?”
“We are indeed,” Will said proudly. “Happy Valley has been around for nearly a decade. It was built as a community for residents who were looking for a safer way to live, away from the hustle and bustle of cities, but without being strictly rural. It was a nice, safe place to live. It wasn’t always as self-sufficient as it is now. Most things were brought in via delivery. Most of the shops we have now, for instance, are old homes or community buildings that we repurposed. But it’s always been a little piece of heaven, especially for those of us who were trying to find a way to leave the city life behind us.”
“Will used to work in New York City,” Abigail offered, “but we moved here when he got the opportunity to switch careers. I never wanted to raise children in the city, and Happy Valley seemed so perfect. So many good people, and so safe, especially compared to the high crime rates and bad schools in the city.”
Rachael nodded. “And after everything happened, I’m sure it seemed like it was meant to be.”
“God, yes,” Abigail exclaimed, “it was like it was destiny. The world presented us with a problem, and Happy Valley was the answer. We could stay in our homes, safe, and surrounded by good people we trust. We had a variety of people with different skill sets, and they figured out how to set up gardens and generators and water purifiers. It’s such a lovely, safe community, filled with good people.”
“What about the workers?” Rachael prompted.
“Sometimes people make their way here, either because they’ve heard about us in passing or find us by providence,” Abigail replied, scratching at the back of her neck absently. “We don’t have a lot of space or extra supplies, but we do what we can in exchange for an honest day’s work.”
“That’s right,” said Will. “We offer them jobs, temporary assignments, so that they can earn a wage, pay for supplies, and sometimes in exchange for safe passage to another community we have a few miles away. It takes a lot of energy and manpower to get them safely there, but we’re willing to do it, provided that they put in the work to earn it.”
“But you don’t make the residents work?” Rachael asked, staring at the Mannerses unblinkingly.
“Why would we?” Will seemed genuinely surprised. “They’re all good people who worked hard to be here. This is their home, and we’re the reason it’s safe to live in Happy Valley. The residents are the reason we’ve all been able to survive. These people are given food, shelter, and safety. We just ask that they earn it.”
“With hard labor,” Rachael said quietly.
“They’re allowed to work for us. I mean, it’s the least they can do in payment for us saving them from what’s outside.”
“What if they bring supplies with them? Wouldn’t that mean they don’t need to work as hard since they’re contributing to the community?”
“When they come in, we ask that they turn over the supplies that they have, which is the basis of their debt, if you will, with the community. As they work, more value is added to that tab based on the jobs they do; the amount of time they spend working. If they cause any destruction of property or disturb any residents, then a penalty is taken out. It is all part of an agreed upon contract. It’s all made very clear from the start.” Abigail’s voice grew strained, agitated under Rachael’s steady gaze. “We just don’t have the space for just anyone to come here and be a resident. The person would need to show their true value to the community, prove that they are a good person who can contribute to Happy Valley.”
Rachael sipped her soda, thinking of the seemingly empty homes she’d noticed during their tour and subsequent explorations.
“For example,” Abigail continued, “for everything that you did for us, for saving Tommy . . . Will and I would speak to the council, and you could live here without needing to work off anything. Happy Valley could be your home, just like it’s ours.”
Rachael pretended to think for a moment.
“And my friends? Could they live here too?”
Will and Abigail looked at each other.
“They would need to work for a place here, just like everyone else.” Will finally said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair under Rachael’s gaze. “They would need to prove they’re good people, prove that they’re a good fit for our community.”
Rachael could hear the meaning behind his words loud and clear.
She could stay because she was white. Because she was useful and fit their image of what they wanted for their “perfect” home. Her friends, who were as capable as her, but with darker skin tones, were not welcome to become residents. Only indentured servants like the rest.
— 22 —
THE SOLDIER AND THE DOG
We moved as quickly as safety allowed, and both of us were good at that sort of thing. I have hunted a lot over the years, and mostly my prey has been other people. As it was now.
Baskerville went wide and ran parallel but a little ahead, sniffing out our trail, following the scent of the last person—or persons—to have visited the clearing where all those people were left to die. I followed, checking the landscape for trips and traps. Finding none even as we got closer to Happy Valley. That troubled me, because any community of people surviving in a world of the walking dead should have set traps. Tin cans filled with stones strung on wires would be enough; a simple sound alarm that the dead would be too stupid to avoid. There were also spots that were natural observation points—sturdy trees where a deer-stand could be erected, knolls where a fortified sentry post could command a view of the surrounding woods. Like that. I saw none of it.
What I did see as I reached the edge of the densest part of the woods, was a walled town. A big, sprawling, gated community with a ten-foot-high wall, probably cinderblock, covered in peach-colored stucco. There was razor wire along the top and I could see sunlight sparkle on a thousand tiny points, which I took for broken glass set into the cement. When I pulled my binoculars to take a closer look I was amused to see that the glass was all in decorative colors. Clearly a design feature of the original build rather than something added later. Besides, broken gl
ass wouldn’t deter the dead. The razor wire wouldn’t do much, either.
I knelt in shadows between lush trees and scanned everything I could see. There were heavy gates fifty yards to my left. And when I zoomed in on them I could see a very expensive security box. Digital and thumbprint scanner, I thought. Inoperative now, but suggestive of high-income residents. The place was remote, though a highway was moderately close, and—according to the map I’d found—so was a heliport, a small private airfield, and a regional rail line. Over the top of the wall I could see a lot of trees, though some of them looked prematurely withered, and the upper floors of two and three-story McMansions. The architecture looked modern. Maybe two or three years before the outbreak. Not older. The wall, too. This place had been built as a retreat for the very wealthy. That much was obvious.
Had it protected them? Time would tell.
I wondered how they were surviving, though. Where did they get the resources to sustain a community? It was impossible to tell from where I knelt just how big the community was, though it looked sizable on the map. Did that mean there was arable farmland inside? Were these wealthy residents really tilling their own fields? It seemed unlikely, though before the End Junie and I visited an intentional community in Central California made up of upscale organic farmers and artists. Was this like that? A place that had been built as a sustainable village before the need for such a thing became absolute?
A lot of questions.
“Come on, fuzzball,” I said softly to Baskerville as I started to rise, but then I saw him staring intently off to my right, and I settled back down. “What are you seeing, boy?”
Still of Night Page 21