Still of Night

by Jonathan Maberry

  “And then?”

  “And then we pick where we want to fight. They have numbers and there is an arrogance that goes with that. You are a woman, most of the Pack are kids. I’m an old man. If Trash has told them about everything, then that is what they will expect to find. It is not,” he said, “what they will find.”

  “No,” she said.

  “What is it they’ll find?” he asked.

  “Warriors,” said Dahlia.

  Mr. Church pulled her close nd hugged her.

  “Welcome to the war.”

  — 24 —

  THE WARRIOR WOMAN

  “We are getting out of here.” Rachael’s voice was low as she handed her extra knives over to Claudia. “I don’t want the town to decide that we’ve outstayed our welcome as guests and decide we need to participate in their fucked-up work program.”

  It was past midnight as Rachael, Claudia, and Jason loaded up their weapons and bags onto their backs, strapping down anything that might make noise so they could move as stealthily as possible. The town was dimly lit at this hour, something Rachael hoped would work to their advantage. The solar lights along the edges of the sidewalks glowed softly, providing just enough light to navigate by.

  She’d spent most of the afternoon and early evening unobtrusively spying to see how regular the guard shifts were, where they patrolled, and if there were any weak points they could use in their favor. There were. For instance, the town seemed to rely primarily on sheer dumb luck. There were only two guards monitoring the main gate at any given time. These were apparently the only jobs they didn’t trust to their non-resident workers, instead relying on a steady stream of volunteers from their community residents.

  The walls of the community were high, at least ten feet, higher than any of them could climb without aid, but Rachael had paid attention to where the ladders the workers used were stored, and she had an idea.

  She just hoped that some of the town’s dumb luck would be on their side tonight. They were going to need it.

  The three of them left the house, well-worn boots falling softly on the grass and pavement. They kept to the deep shadows between houses, ducking into the darkness at any signs of movement. The streets were pretty much deserted; most of the town was already asleep, preparing for a new day.

  The storage building was adjacent to the country club turned city hall. A risk, but a calculated one, and one that Rachael hoped would pay off. She sent Claudia and Jason to the east wall where they’d wait for her, and she would meet them by the side gate. It was further out of their way, but the further away from the front gate, the less chance of them being spotted.

  She wound between the buildings, keeping to the darkness, eyes darting for any signs of movement, of life, of danger. The town was silent, eerily so, but no one seemed to be awake in this section.

  Good.

  The storage building bordered the road that led to the city hall. It was small and unassuming except for the large padlock on the front. Rachael crouched down and studied it. She’d learned how to pick locks years ago for her LARP character, but she was out of practice and didn’t have the right tools with her. She was going to need to rely more on brute strength.

  Pulling one of her throwing knives from her belt, she jammed the tip into the lock, rocking it back and forth, lodging it in, before twisting sharply, trying to jam the lock.

  “Fuck. Work!” she grunted under her breath, forcing all of her strength into the knife.

  Rachael froze, heart pounding as a sound carried to her ears. Was there someone there? The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, along with the certainty she was being watched.

  She looked around, eyes darting to all the darkened windows and long shadows. She couldn’t see anyone, but that didn’t mean anything. She needed to work faster.

  She tried again, but the knife gave, bending against the force and snapping the tip of the blade off in the lock. Cursing softly, she threw the knife into the grass and grabbed her big Elven dagger. Lodging it between the lock and the door, she braced herself and pushed.

  The clank of the metal latch snapping sounded like cannon fire to her ears, and Rachael froze, holding her breath, heart racing wildly. Surely someone had to have heard.

  But ten seconds passed, then twenty, and no one appeared, so Rachael pushed open the door and grabbed the largest ladder she could find and a bundle of rope. Gripping the ladder tightly under one arm, she bolted for the wall as quickly and quietly as she could.

  She found Jason and Claudia, crouched and tense, in the shadows by the east wall. Rachael could almost feel the fear and tension ripple in the air around them.

  “Ladder,” murmured Rachael. Jason raised it and placed it quietly against the wall, extending it as high as she could. There was still a good seven-foot gap between the top of the ladder and the top of the wall, and her heart sank as she thought about the drop on the other side.

  Jason seemed to read her mind. “Parkour?” he asked with a strained smile. Rachael nodded, tying the rope to a sturdy sapling and handing it to him, hoping it was long enough to help them slide down to safety.

  Jason climbed the ladder first while Rachael held the bottom steady, hoping their luck would hold. She hadn’t heard any sounds, but the voice in the back of her mind that had saved her many times in LARP was sounding warning alarms now. Something was wrong.

  Rachael watched nervously as Jason reached the top of the ladder. He was tall, a little over six feet, with wiry lean muscles that allowed him to pull himself to the top of the wall easily. He dropped his bag and the rope over the other side as Claudia began to climb.

  Claudia was six rungs from the top when Rachael heard the incoming footsteps behind her, the sudden flicker of a flashlight throwing long shadows across the wall.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” The shout came from a few feet away.

  “GO!” she screamed as Claudia reached the top, arms outstretched to Jason. He grabbed her hands, pulling her from the ladder rung to help her scramble to the top of the wall, handing her the rope to climb down the other side.

  Rachael turned before they dropped out of sight, her Elven sword already in hand, threatening. She had to squint into the glare of a flashlight. “Back off right the hell now,” she snarled. “Just let us leave and no one gets—”

  She barely caught the blur of movement as someone swung a heavy rake at her. Rachael brought her blade up to try and parry it away, but the edge bit deep into the wood and she nearly lost the weapon. The attacker tried to use the opportunity to pull her knife from her hand, but even half-blinded, Rachael pivoted and kicked out. The flat of her heel hit something solid and the attacker sagged back, losing his grip on the rake. Rachael freed her weapon with a deft snap of her wrist.

  Then she spun and dropped into a fighting crouch, legs spread, weight shifted onto the balls of her feet, ready for anything. Three more flashlights flared to life and she was completely blind now.

  She never saw what it was that knocked her legs out from under her. Maybe a shovel, maybe an axe handle. Whatever it was whipped her feet into the air and then she was down, landing flat on her back. Too hard, too fast, no chance at all to break her fall. The air was knocked out of her lungs and she made a scream like a dying rabbit as she tried to suck some oxygen.

  “This is for you, you fucking bitch,” growled a man’s voice and she had the briefest image of a thick boot moving toward her face. The kick knocked all the lights out of the world and Rachael plummeted into a bottomless pit of darkness.

  — 25 —

  THE SOLDIER AND THE DOG

  I didn’t catch up with Snail and his crew of spies, though I found a spot on the dirt shoulder of a feeder road that showed clear signs of bicycle tires. Still biking, though not in the same thunderous style. Whatever. Bicycles were practical, they didn’t need gas, and they were quiet. I gave Snail some grudging points for that.

  Baskerville and I scouted along the road in the o
pposite direction, following where the road arced around to the far west corner of Happy Valley, and there we got lucky.

  Three bikes were set against trees just off the road and loosely covered with leafy branches. Enough cover to keep away nosy humans, and totally indifferent to the dead. Not that there were a lot of zombies in the area. No real reason there would be. I hadn’t seen many homes or farms within miles, which meant that population was pretty thin on the ground to begin with. Maybe any stray walkers had been cleared out by either the Rovers or the residents of Happy Valley. There were some bones in the weeds, including skulls that displayed clear head trauma.

  The bikes were in good shape and the branches had been only recently cut. I let Baskerville sniff the seats and handle-grips of each bike and then told him to find. I gave him the verbal command to find only. Not “find and own,” which would have left me no one alive to chat with.

  Baskerville crept off, sniffing the ground, picking up speed as he locked onto a scent. I followed at a light jog-trot, conserving my wind in case there was a fight.

  It took my dog twenty-four minutes to find the Rovers. They were crouched down behind a Lexus that had burned to a shell. Like the other crew, they wore too much leather and had grisly trophies around their necks—ring fingers, big toes, and ears.

  It’s hard to develop warm fuzzy bunny feelings about guys like that.

  The sun was rolling toward the west and the shadows were getting long. I didn’t want to waste what was left of daylight watching these three sit and scratch at flea bites. I was about to do something when they rose and turned and began walking back through the woods. I ghosted them. As they began pulling the foliage away from their rides, I came up behind them, drew my gun and stood with it in a very comfortable and steady two-hand grip. Close enough for easy kills, too far for them to make any sensible moves.

  “Yo,” I said, “assholes.”

  They whirled, reaching for their guns, but then froze. I was really close and I had them dead to rights. Anyone could see it.

  “Do something stupid and I will kill you,” I said.

  They looked scared and confused. Only one of them looked dumb enough to try something.

  “Lose the hardware,” I said. “Do it slowly and do it now.”

  “Who the fuck are—”

  “I’m the guy with the gun,” I said, cutting him off. Then I clicked my tongue and Baskerville trotted out of the woods and came up to them. He is a really big fucking dog. The armor and spikes and all make him look like a gargoyle, and not a happy one at that. He seemed to sense which of them was twitchiest and looked him right in the eye. Sure, they all had weapons but they also had no chance at all.

  “Take your pick. Bullet in the brainpan or have your nuts torn off.” I smiled. “Third choice is taking your weapons out with two fingers and dropping them on the ground.”

  They hesitated for one moment longer, but then one of them—the leader, I later learned—said, “Do it.”

  His men disarmed, and they made quite a pile of goodies. Guns, hatchets, skinning knives, combat knives, a couple pairs of wire cutters—probably for taking souvenirs—and one old pineapple-style World War II hand grenade.

  “Listen to me carefully,” I said. “If even one of you is jerking me off and trying to hide something, I’ll kill all three of you. Take a moment and then make the right decision.”

  The asshole who looked like he was going to try something flushed and removed a knife from a concealed sheath in his boot.

  “Nice,” I said, and shot him through the face. The bullet exited through a big and messy hole and struck a tree across the road. The shot was loud but hollow, as gunfire outside usually is. The echo bounced off the trees and vanished into the sky. Even if someone heard it, there was little chance they’d be able to accurately determine where it came from.

  The other two men cried out and started to move, tried to catch him, almost ran, and all of it at once, meaning they accomplished nothing.

  “Why . . . why . . . why . . . ?” stammered one of the others. “The fuck you shoot him for? Donny did what you said.”

  “Not the first time I asked,” I said. “Let’s all take that as a teachable moment.”

  They stood rock still and gaped at me, caught between the gun and the dog, with all of their options leaking out of Donny’s head.

  “Now, here’s what is going to happen next, kids,” I said. “You’re going to take your belts off and let your pants drop around your ankles. No, don’t look at me like that. This isn’t that kind of weird. Belts off. Good. Pants down. Now, take your belts and wrap them around your pants, knot them up tight and cinch the buckles. Make a good job of it or I’ll have Baskerville bite something off you don’t want to lose.”

  The dog gave a deep-chested whuff.

  I watched as they followed my orders, creating a useful version of leg irons. Sure, they could get out of it, but not quickly. The younger of the two wore stained blue boxers; the other guy had the nastiest, clingiest pair of tighty-whities I’d ever had the misfortune to see.

  “Guess we’re all happy neither of you decided to go commando today,” I said. They looked down at the ground, too scared and embarrassed—and confused—to say shit. I crossed my legs and sat down ten feet from them. Baskerville sat so close to the older guy that hot slobber fell on the man’s thigh. I told them to sit, and they did. “Let’s play truth or dare. Rules are simple. I ask questions and you give me absolutely true answers. Full and complete answers. And don’t you dare fuck with me.” Flies were beginning to buzz around Donny’s head, which added eloquent emphasis. They both nodded.

  “First,” I said. “Names.”

  “Barry,” said the younger guy. “Barry Niles. People call me Diver.”

  “Why? You skydive or skin-dive?”

  He colored. “It’s, um . . . ”

  “He’s a muff diver,” said the older guy. “Can’t get enough of it. Always smells like pussy.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  “Loki.”

  “Real name?”

  “Left it behind a long time ago,” said the older guy. He was about forty, with red hair and green eyes and a knife scar that bisected his left eyebrow.

  “Okay,” I said. “Loki was the god of mischief. You planning on trying something clever?”

  “No,” he said, then in case he thought I wasn’t going to believe him, added, “No, sir.”

  “Good. Next question. What’s the name of your outfit?”

  Loki paused for a heartbeat and then said, “Rovers. Pittsburgh chapter, and some others.”

  “Thought so. Who’s running the Rovers these days.”

  “Dude,” said Diver, “he’ll cut our nuts off if we—”

  Loki turned to him. “Shut the fuck up, dumbass. Grown folks are talking here.” To me he said, “Same cat who was riding first bike before the biters ate everyone. Big Elroy.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “You will,” said Diver. “You shot Donny and—”

  Loki turned and punched Diver in the side of the head. Really hard. The lights in the younger man’s eyes dimmed for a moment. Baskerville shot to his feet and was about to take a bite out of the older man, but I snapped my fingers.

  “Enough,” I said sharply. Diver clutched his head and moaned. “Loki, keep your hands to yourself. And Diver . . . ? Next time you open your mouth it better be to answer a question or it won’t be your friend here who clobbers you. I’ll blow your kneecaps off. Both of them. Want me to do that? No? Then mind your fucking manners.”

  I gave them a minute to get their shit together. Then I gave Loki and Diver a nice, big smile. The big hunting cats smile like that. Or so people have told me.

  “Now, fellas,” I said, “what’s your interest in Happy Valley?”

  — 26 —

  DAHLIA AND THE PACK

  Dahlia and Neeko moved through the woods together. A small two-person scout team.
<
br />   Old Man Church had sent them out to gather intel while the rest of their friends packed everything they could and began the process of moving the camp. A lot of things would have to be left behind, but there was nothing that could be done about that. The presence of the Rovers, and the betrayal of Trash, made haste more crucial even than the bulk of supplies.

  Before they left, Dahlia said to Church, “Maybe the Rovers will see all the stuff we’re leaving and just be happy with that.”

  “Is that what you think?” asked Church, “or what you hope?”

  When she didn’t answer, Church gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze and sent Dahlia on her way. That had been three hours ago and the brief conversation was still sticking pins in her. She wanted to be right. Was there something wrong with wishful thinking? Was it wrong to hope for an outcome that didn’t involve fear and fighting and horror?

  Neeko, sensitive to her mood, kept cutting her looks but didn’t actually say much. They kept walking. Dahlia tried to keep her head in the game, but that’s the problem with emotions like heartbreak; it’s an easy set up for distraction and for failure.

  “Well now,” said a voice from off to their left, “will you look at this shit right here.”

  Dahlia and Neeko jolted to a stop and turned toward the voice.

  They were there. Five of them. Three men and one woman in their thirties and one woman in her late forties. All in leather. All of them smiling in ugly ways.

  Rovers.

  “She’s cute,” said one of the women. She had a muscular body and a face made of sharp lines and no softness. A leather cord was strung loosely around her neck and from it hung more than a dozen human ears. “Dibs.”

  “Fuck that,” said a tall, lean man with filthy dreadlocks and a necklace of little fingers. Three of them looked like they were cut from the hands of children. “I saw her first.”

  “Yeah, but I called it first, asshole.”

  The others laughed, and the man relented. “Okay. But leave something for me.”