“He could have turned me in,” said Dahlia.
Church said nothing.
“He didn’t have to lie for me.”
Nothing.
“That says a lot, doesn’t it?” she asked. “It means that he’s not really with them. That he’s not as bad as them.”
Church kept walking and said nothing at all.
Finally Dahlia couldn’t bear it and she ran around and stood in his way, forcing him to stop. The rest of the Pack stopped, too. All of them looking nervously at the two of them. Church took a breath and let it out slowly.
“What would you like me to say, Dahlia? Trash saved your life. Yes, that’s good. Yes, it shows that he has some redeeming quality. But he also betrayed the entire Pack and told them where our camp was. If you hadn’t seen him do that then we might have been raided and slaughtered. We don’t know how many of them there are. You got lucky today. That’s the bottom line.”
“He saved me,” she insisted.
“Which is why I didn’t kill him,” Church said coldly. “That’s his reward. Trust does not come with it.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Understand this, Dahlia, if it comes down to Trash’s life and a single member of our family, then I will end him.”
“I won’t let you.”
His eyes were like flecks of black ice behind his tinted lenses. “What is more important to you? Saving Trash or saving the entire Pack?”
“Both,” she said immediately.
“And if both is not an option?”
Before she could answer he walked around her and continued leading the Pack through the woods toward Happy Valley.
Dahlia stood where she was, fists balled, heart beating in all the wrong ways in her chest. Hating Church. Hating herself and everyone. Wanting them all to die. Wanting herself to die. Being a damn zombie would be so much easier than this.
As the Pack moved past her she gave them brutal death stares, daring anyone to show pity or say a fucking word. No one did. Not even Neeko, who lingered for a moment, looking hurt and confused.
When they were all gone, Dahlia stood alone in the slanting sunlight. She almost wished there was a zombie or four to fight. Or some random thug who just tried to give her shit. Someone she could happily stomp to death.
But the woods remained calm, with bees and butterflies and songbirds.
Dahlia wanted to light a match and burn it all down.
“God damn it, Trash,” she snarled. When she uncurled her clenched fingers and looked at her palms, there were crescent-shaped nicks in the skin. Two of them welled with blood.
She bent and snatched up a fallen branch, whirled and smashed it against the trunk of a tree, sending splinters of wood flying in all directions. The sound was startlingly loud and it froze her. She looked up as if she could see the echoes bounce off the trees and flee across the forest.
“Shit . . . ” she breathed.
The birds were silent now and she could feel them watching her. Ice formed around her heart as she wondered who else had heard that sound.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
She ran to catch up with the Pack.
Neeko was waiting for her a few hundred yards along the trail, chewing on a stem of sweet grass and pretending it was just any ordinary day.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” she said. They fell into step together.
After nearly two miles, he said, “So . . . think it might rain?”
“Oh, shut up,” she said, but she laughed as she said it.
Then one of the younger kids came running back to find her. “The Old Man wants you,” she gasped. “We’re there.”
Dahlia and Neeko broke into a run and followed the girl back to where Church and several older Pack members crouched in the shadows beneath a massive weeping willow. Sunlight shone brightly on a broad space of cleared land, and beyond that was a large, wide wall covered in peach stucco.
“Happy Valley,” said Neeko.
“It looks intact,” said Dahlia. “No zombies. No signs that it’s been overrun.”
Church, hearing her comment, came over and knelt beside her. “The other scouts have reported in,” he said. “There are packs of Rovers all through these woods. Estimate one hundred minimum, and likely more if there are groups in other parts of the woods. They’re moving in the direction of the town. Some of them are carrying ladders, likely looted from building sites or stores. Others are pulling wagons of premade Molotov cocktails. Dixie said she saw several Rovers with grappling hooks.”
Dahlia felt the blood drain from her face. “They’re going to attack the town, aren’t they? I mean . . . like right now.”
“Yes,” said Church. “There’s no other target of substance in the area. The scouts estimate that we have one hour before they’re here.”
“Well . . . shit!” She instantly began to surge forward, but Church caught her arm and gently pulled her back.
He held up a finger. “Never rush into things without considering all of the pertinent data.”
“Like what? The Rovers will slaughter a bunch of innocent people.”
Church said, “How sure are you that the people of that town are innocent? You’ve heard some of the rumors the refugees have told us.”
“What, about Happy Valley being like a slave plantation? Come on, do you expect me to believe that crap?”
“I expect you to consider it and prepare for that eventuality, just as you prepare for other things. Strategic planning is best done from a distance and with a cool head.”
They studied the landscape for a bit as she chewed on that.
“So, Dahlia,” he said after a time, “what do you think we should do?”
“Me? I thought you were Obi Wan and we were all Padawan learners.”
“This is real life,” he reminded her. “Besides, it’s your Pack, Dahlia. It’s never been mine, and it won’t be mine when this is over. It’s up to you to make a decision, and to plan for various likely contingencies. For example, you could head southeast, skirt the perimeter and move out of the area. There’s still time for that. And there are half a dozen other possible options.”
“Like . . . ?”
He shook his head. “You tell me.”
Dahlia turned and looked back at the members of her Pack, all of whom were crouched down in the weeds and behind bushes. She knew and loved them all. She’d done so much to protect them and keep them out of harm’s way. On the other hand, she’d also talked them into joining with Old Man Church. That hadn’t been for fun and games. He made no secret about the fact that he was waging a war out here. Against the dead and against the predatory living.
Against people like the Rovers.
She took a breath and told him what she thought they could do. Church listened and then nodded.
“You see?” he said. “You are a leader.”
They spent a few minutes discussing the plan and some variations. Church offered a few suggestions, but mostly let her shape things. The more they talked, the more Dahlia felt that there was a logic to her idea. Even a strength. But then darkness drifted over her heart. She lowered her voice so that only Church could hear her. “If we do this,” she said, “some of them could get hurt.”
“Some will be hurt. That’s unavoidable.”
“Some of them could die.”
He nodded. “Yes.” Church adjusted his black gloves and stared into the distance. “This is the shape of the world, Dahlia. We can’t wish an idyllic paradise into being. Maybe other people can do that, but I doubt it. Sometimes peace comes at a price. The question is, are you, as leader of the Pack, willing to pay that price?”
— 33 —
THE WARRIOR WOMAN
Kyle drew the hatchet from his belt and brandished it at Glory.
“I’m going to cut me a big chunk of ugly off your ass,” he announced, and ran at her. Glory sidestepped to avoid his swing, and although she still smiled Rachael could see that the woman was surprised at the speed of the attack. Kyle was a
jackass, but he was quick. The two of them began jabbing and slashing at each other, missing by hair’s breadths each time.
For a moment, everyone else on both sides seemed to be caught in a moment of stupid spectatorship. Maybe the townies were unprepared for this and not as aggressive as Kyle; maybe the gang members had expected the townies to cave more easily. In either case, the moment held, stretched, and then finally snapped. The man who’d smoked the cigarette flung himself at the young man who’d stabbed the shotgun guy. The leap was powerful, but the killer either saw him coming or had good reflexes because he began to turn as the rush hit him, so instead of being smashed down, both men fell and rolled over and over.
Then everyone was fighting. They went from shocked immobility to a madhouse melee in a fragment of a second. Rachael wasted no time. Her left hand was still free and she immediately began tearing at the knots that held her right to the crossbar. Jason was shaking his head, trying to shake off the battering he’d received; and even Claudia was beginning to twitch, roused by the shouts and screams.
Everywhere she looked Rachael saw terrible violence. It wasn’t just a fight, it was like watching rabid dogs tearing at each other. The townsfolk fought with terror, which gave them incredible speed and a desperate ferocity. The gang members fought with a vicious cruelty that was more natural brutality than skill. They were evenly armed and both groups knew they were fighting for their lives. There were no fancy moves, no tactics or strategies. This was mayhem and murder.
Rachael got her right hand free and began working on the lashing around her waist. Her T-shirt collar was torn, but not badly, and the townies hadn’t even bothered to remove her few pieces of armor. Her weapons were gone, though. Damn.
“Rachael . . . ?” called Claudia weakly. “What’s . . . what’s happening?”
As the last knot came free, Kyle came staggering toward her, his eyes wide and both hands clamped to his throat. Blood, red as madness, spurted from between his fingers. Glory, her face bruised and lacerated, caught up to him and began hacking at him, stabbing him in the shoulders and head and back, all the while uttering a long, continuous inarticulate scream of pure rage. Kyle, dying, collapsed forward, releasing his throat and grabbing hold of Rachael as if with some insane desire to drag her down into death with him.
Even then Glory kept chopping at him. Rachael couldn’t tell if this was a reaction to Kyle injuring her or the way this wild woman always fought. Either way, it was terrifying.
Then, as if a switch had been thrown, Glory stopped, locked for a moment in place, her knife and knife-hand dripping with blood as Kyle sank lifelessly to the ground. Glory’s eyes stared at him and then slowly rose to stare Rachael in the eyes. The mask of mindless fury transformed all at once. The mad lights in her eyes were replaced by a sudden look of hunger. A naked and terrible look of gluttony.
“Mine,” said the woman softly as carnage raged all around her. “First you, and then your whole damn town. Mine.”
Rachael tried to tell her that Happy Valley wasn’t her town. That she was no part of any of this. That this was all wrong.
But there was no time left for any of that.
— 34 —
DAHLIA AND THE PACK
Dahlia got up and walked out of the forest.
After a moment, and in ones, twos, and threes, the rest of the Pack joined her. Church followed last. Jumper and Slow Dog were right behind her. They all walked quickly across the cleared space, heading for the main gate. Dahlia was aware that the Rover teams they’d spotted hiding in the woods were able to see all of this happen. She thought she could hear whistles blowing deep inside the forest. Or maybe it was just the wind. Hard to say, and too late now anyway.
She walked straight up to the front gate, stopping far enough back so that the guards on the wall could get a good look at her. At all of them. The Pack had grown since she’d joined Old Man Church. Strays, refugees, and small parties swelled the ranks so that there were now about a hundred of them.
“Everyone stay cool,” she’d ordered. “Weapons slung. No one says anything. No one acts like a dick, okay?”
Her people nodded. Even those who were a good deal older than Dahlia. To all of them, she was the leader of the Pack, and she was answerable only to the strange old man with the tinted glasses and black gloves.
Church came and stood near her, but slightly back and to one side. Allowing her to own the moment. Dahlia felt a little bit like a kid in a school play with her father watching, but that was okay.
“Hey,” she called. “Hello in there.”
Above her a figure appeared. A woman of about sixty with iron gray hair, dark eyes, and severely angled cheekbones. Two men flanked her and laid the barrels of hunting rifles on the wall, the barrels pointing down.
“Who are you and what do you want?” asked the older woman in a voice that was very clear and very sharp. “And who are all these . . . people . . . with you?”
Dahlia did not like the woman’s voice or attitude. It was an instant decision, but it came from her gut. Even so, she put on her best debate team voice and plowed ahead.
“My name’s Dahlia. These are my friends. We heard about Happy Valley and came to see if it was still standing.”
“It is, as you can see,” said the woman. “What of it?”
“Well, not to be blunt, but it’s not going to be standing much longer, ma’am.”
The woman gave her a cold smile. “Oh really? And is that supposed to be a threat of some kind?”
“A threat?” Dahlia was actually surprised. “No. It’s a warning, I suppose. We heard about some people—a big gang of bikers and such—heading this way. They call themselves the Rovers.”
One of the men on the wall leaned close and whispered something to the woman and they spoke together for several seconds. Then the woman nodded and turned back to Dahlia.
“How do we know you’re not Rovers yourself?”
Dahlia glanced at Neeko and a few of the other younger ones, then back up. “Seriously?”
“Yes, I’m very serious.”
“Um, because the Rovers are a motorcycle gang. At least they were before the EMPs killed their bikes. They go around wearing leather and studs, and they wear necklaces of body parts they’ve cut off of people. Most of us are teenagers, or close enough. I don’t think we’re actually rocking a killer biker army vibe. I mean . . . do you?”
The woman gave her a cold appraisal for a long ten count. “Why come and tell us?”
“Common decency?” said Dahlia, inflecting it as a question.
“And what would you expect in return? We don’t have food to share.”
“We have plenty of food,” said Dahlia. “We don’t actually need anything from you. Look . . . can we come in so we don’t have to stand out here shouting?”
The woman’s eyes seemed to focus on Church for the first time. “And who is that? Your father?”
Without hesitation, Dahlia said, “He’s my uncle. He used to be a—”
Church cut in and Dahlia was shocked to hear him speak with a New England drawl that was thicker than his own accent. “My name’s John Deacon,” he said, “of the Hampton Deacons. Steel exports. What my niece here is trying to say is that we’ve been out here for some time and we’re doing fine. Have a good place with all the comforts of home. Even make a good martini, as long as the olives last. But these Rovers have been raiding a lot of settlements and causing all kind of trouble. Some of these young folks are scouts—we have a barter system of field work of all kinds in exchange for room and board. Works out very well, if you follow me. Well, we sent some teams out to keep an eye on the Rovers and they overheard mention of Happy Valley. So, I came out here, gathered up the scout teams. Wasn’t sure if you were all safe here or if you needed some warm bodies to sort those thugs out. Not looking for anything because, quite frankly, I can’t think of a thing you have that we need. But what pains me is to see . . . ” and here he paused to pour acid on his words, “ . . .
those people come and take away what rightfully belongs to decent Americans.”
The speech shocked Dahlia but she kept it off her face. She saw Neeko and Jumper exchange deeply surprised expressions; though Slow Dog was nodding in appreciation. Church sounded like a completely convincing rich asshole, from the imperious tilt of his head to the word choice. It bothered her that he could play this role so well.
The woman on the wall cleared her throat. “The Hampton Deacons, you say?”
“Yes. We helped build half of New York, or at least the bones of most of the buildings. Shame what happened to it.” A beat. “I mean before this whole outbreak thing. Used to be a decent place, once upon a time. People you met on the street could speak English, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes,” said the woman. Church smiled up at her, and damn if she didn’t smile back.
“What are you doing?” asked Dahlia in a tiny whisper.
“Roll with it,” he said, hardly moving his lips. In a much louder voice he said, “My niece wasn’t exaggerating about the Rovers. They’re quite a savage bunch. Unwashed, unintelligent, uncouth, but there are a lot of them and they are coming.”
The woman was still unconvinced. Dahlia saw her eyes roving over the rest of the Pack. There were people of all colors in her group, and they looked pretty raw and wild, too.
Before the woman on the walls could answer, there was a sudden shrill blast of whistles from the woods. Not one, but many.
Church pointed to the forest. “That’s them. They’re coming. Either let us in and we can fight them together, or we’ll get out of here before they show up. I certainly don’t like the idea of fighting all of them in an open field.”
The whistles were still distant, but it was clear they were drawing closer. Dahlia wondered if it was intended to spook the people behind the walls, or to gather the various gangs of Rovers together. Or both.
The woman on the wall pursed her lips, giving her face a pinched, shrewish cast. The same man who’d whispered to her earlier now produced a pair of binoculars and handed them to her, pointing to a section of the forest three hundred yards to the west. The woman looked for a moment through the glasses and then jerked them away from her eyes, her shrewish expression instantly replaced by one of naked fear.
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