Still of Night

by Jonathan Maberry

  At first there didn’t seem to be a use for this, because they weren’t even trying to reach the walls. For a moment I thought they were afraid of more gunfire, but then as more and more of the Molotov cocktails exploded, the sense of it became obvious. The Rovers had lured the dead out of the forest with whistles, and now they were creating lines of fire on the field to drive the dead along corridors of flame that narrowed down to where the walls had been breached. Zombies shy away from flames—not sure if they’re afraid of it or because there’s nothing about the burning heat that smells of life or food. In any case, they shifted away and moved toward the smell of life beyond the walls.

  It was another sign the Rovers had thought this through.

  I glanced back at the three Rovers and the cart near me. By standing on my tippy-toes I could see the necks of dozens of bottles with rags stuck in the mouths. More cocktails for the garden party.

  I grinned. Sometimes I love being who I am and thinking the way I think.

  I drew my pistol and walked around behind them. They were really focused on what was happening on the field. I took up a solid shooter’s stance, raised the gun in a two-hand grip and said, “Hey, fellas.”

  They whirled.

  They saw the gun. Then they saw Baskerville come loping out of the brush. Their weapons—an axe, a scythe and assorted knives—stuck up from a corner of the cart.

  “Who the fuck are you?” demanded one of them.

  I pointed the barrel at his face and said, “Shhhhhh.”

  They shushed.

  “You cats have one chance here,” I told them. “Strip off those hazmat suits. Do it right now. No . . . no talk, no questions. That’s it, good boys.”

  They removed the garments and stood in their leather and spikes, with their necklaces of ugly parts. And, as it turned out, it was two men and a woman.

  “You,” I said to the guy who’d asked who I was, “pick up the clothes and put them over there next to my dog. Be real careful about it, too. Baskerville hasn’t eaten yet this morning and although you probably have too small a dick to fill his belly, that is where he’d take his first bite. Feel me?”

  He apparently did, and moved with all the delicate care of someone walking blindfolded through a minefield. He dropped the mucky white garments a few feet from Baskerville.

  While he did that, Rachael came quietly out of the woods and stood on the far side of the cart. They glanced at her in surprise. Not unreasonable, considering Rachael wore parts of old-fashioned armor, had blood matted in her hair, and a big tear in the front of her Batgirl T-shirt. She was also giving them a look that would have frightened a crocodile.

  “Who the hell’s she supposed to be?”

  “I thought that was pretty obvious,” I said. “She’s Batgirl.”

  I said it in a Christian Bale raspy voice, but they looked blank. Wrong crowd, or maybe the movie was too old for them. Whatever.

  “Okay, assholes,” I said, “what’s the plan for Happy Valley? I mean, the whole plan. I want details and I want them now.”

  The first guy snorted. “You’re out of your fucking mind if you think—”

  I shot him in the face. He fell backward and down and I took a step forward and pointed the gun at the woman, who’d stood closest to him and whose face was now painted with blood and brains. Rachael shifted toward the second man, and Baskerville moved quickly to stand within easy kill range of both Rovers.

  The Rovers jumped and cried out when I fired my shot, but then turned to statues. Their eyes were wide, mouths open, and it was clear that any power that they perceived in themselves had crumbled away.

  “I only need one of you to answer my questions,” I said, moving the barrel from one to the other. “That one gets to walk out of here.”

  As it happened, they both decided that it was a good time for a conversation. Once they got in gear, I could hardly shut them up.

  — 46 —

  HAPPY VALLEY

  Dahlia recoiled from the flames that sprang up in long lines across the field. The living dead stumbled forward in their hundreds. A few staggered too close to the fires, and flames leapt onto dried flesh and rags of clothing, turning them into torches. Here and there some of these walking bonfires collided with other zombies, but the Rovers were there with long poles to knock them away before they could start a conflagration.

  The mass moved on, getting closer to the wall. Soon they would be climbing toward the breech.

  “Archers,” yelled Dahlia, and those members of the Pack who had real skill with bows drew arrows and began firing. The first volley hit home, with every arrow finding undead flesh, but only two zombies fell. “Aim for the head!”

  They tried and the second volley was almost entirely wasted. Arrows struck eyes but the archers were shooting down and the barbs drove at the wrong angle. Most of the arrows passed over their heads and hit the chests of the creatures behind them.

  The zombies surged forward through the alley of flames.

  “Wait,” yelled Dahlia. “Legs. Shoot their legs.”

  The archers stared at her for a moment, then one by one they understood and reached for new arrows. They took careful aim and fired. Of the nineteen arrows fired, seven struck the big muscles of the thighs in the front rank of zombies. There was minimal blood and no trace of pain on the faces of those who were struck, but five of that seven fell as the damage from broad-bladed arrows caused muscles and tendons to tear themselves apart. Even the dead need muscular integrity to stand and walk.

  The five that fell were like a tripwire to the dozen behind them. Suddenly the ruse was a collision, with ungainly bodies tripping over them and the mass behind continuing to press forward.

  “Rocks,” bellowed Dahlia and a wave of helpers snatched up pieces of broken cinderblock and handfuls of river stones and hurled them down at the zombies. Trying to smash heads, and sometimes managing it. Other rocks broke arms or legs.

  The archers kept firing and the helpers kept throwing rocks with frenzied energy, and Dahlia’s army built a bulwark of corpses fifteen feet from the breech.

  ***

  Down on the ground level, Old Man Church had handed off the empty rifle and hurried over to the pen where the townsfolk were kept under guard. He ignored the stares of resentment, fear, and hatred.

  “Open it,” he told Slow Dog, who was standing guard. Slow Dog obeyed at once and then took up a position with a double-barreled shotgun just outside. Church walked past him into the cage.

  “You’re going to regret this,” began Margaret Van Sloane, but Church walked past her as if she was nothing. Less than a gnat. He stopped in the center of the pen with enough people surrounding him that if they wanted to kill him, everyone there knew they could. He had no weapon in his gloved hands, and he was an old man.

  “Listen to me,” he said. “The Rovers are here. You can hear it. You heard the explosions. The front wall is badly damaged and Dahlia, her Pack, and the people you enslaved here are fighting against a coordinated attack that can, and very likely will, be too much for us to stop. The Rovers will get in here. So will several hundred of the living dead. Happy Valley is going to fall.” He looked around at a sea of faces. Even the most hardened of them looked scared. “If the enemy breaks in, we will all die. That is certain.”

  The sounds of the battle—screams, explosions, whistles, moans—filled the air.

  “You people know this town. Maybe you have resources here Dahlia doesn’t know about. Extra weapons and ammunition. Materials that can be used as explosives. Body armor. Cans of hairspray that can be used as blow torches. Anything that can give us a better chance.”

  The people said nothing. Some people could not, or would not, meet his eyes.

  “We need those resources,” said Church, “and we need fighters. We need any of you who are willing to fight with us rather than against us.”

  Van Sloane gave a loud, derisive snort. “You have to be out of your mind if you think any of us would lift a finger t
o help you and—”

  “I’ll do it,” said a young woman of about twenty. She was slim and fit, with blonde hair and bright blue eyes.

  “Be quiet, Bree,” snapped Van Sloane. “Nobody asked you.”

  “Me, too,” said a tall teenager. Maybe seventeen, with broad shoulders and a receding chin.

  “Yeah,” said another young man, and then two twenty-something women nodded and stepped forward. Several of the older townies cried out in protest, and one caught the wrist of Bree, the first girl who’d spoken up.

  “What are you doing?” demanded the woman.

  Bree looked at her and then jerked her wrist away. “I guess I’m doing what you won’t, Mom.”

  Others stepped forward, and it was clear that the ones who volunteered were all young, from twelve up to maybe twenty-four or -five. None older.

  “We have some guns in the basement,” said the broad-shouldered teen.

  “Thomas,” said an older man, “no.”

  Thomas turned to the man, who was clearly his father. “I’ve been meaning to ask you this for a long time, Dad,” he said. “So . . . tell me, what the fuck is wrong with you?” He looked around at Van Sloane and the other adults. “What the fuck is wrong with all of you?”

  Bree shook her head. “What’s wrong with us?”

  Church held up a hand. “Much as I would love to moderate an existential debate, we have a war to fight. Anyone who wants to help save the whole town, come with me.”

  All the young people moved forward and a few of the adults made to follow. Church stepped into their path.

  “Be very careful with what you decide,” he said. “If anyone comes out of this cage with anything but a desire to help everyone, I will kill them. Look into my eyes and ask yourself if I’m joking.”

  Two of the men glanced at each other and then stepped back. They cut looks at Van Sloane, but she said nothing. The other adults nodded to Church and followed the younger residents out. Church went last and lingered for a moment in the doorway.

  “You’re choosing to remain in a cage rather than fight alongside your own children. You’re staying here rather than fight for your own lives.” He shook his head. “I’ve seen a lot of flavors of human cowardice and aggressive stupidity, but quite frankly, you amaze me. And you disappoint me.”

  With that he turned and left, and the cage was locked behind him.

  ***

  The battle at the wall was going better than Dahlia thought. The combination of precise archery and then the hurling of stones was creating an actual wall of writhing bodies that, so far, was keeping the main army of the zombies away.

  But it was working a little too well.

  As she walked along the wall, directing the fight, Dahlia tried to apply all of the lessons Church had given her about tactics and strategy. From a certain distance, the Rovers’ plan was solid: herding the dead onto the field, using the RPGs to weaken the wall, and then creating walls of flame to funnel the dead toward the breaches. All sound.

  Except that it wasn’t.

  She chewed her lip and peered over the walls at the enemy outside the gates. There were so many of the dead, and there were some wild spots where random walkers burned. Rovers used their poles to keep the burning wanderers from setting the whole mass of the dead alight. The teams with the Molotov cocktails made sure the fires didn’t go out.

  So . . . what was wrong?

  She stopped and stared.

  There had to be at least thirty Rovers on the field, each doing different jobs.

  Thirty.

  Thirty?

  “Oh . . . shit,” she said, and then she turned and leaped down from the wall. Although she hated to run, she ran now as new and sudden terror exploded inside her heart.

  They were going to lose this fight, and now she understood why.

  — 47 —

  THE WARRIOR WOMAN, THE SOLDIER, AND THE DOG

  Rachael, Baskerville, and I ran as fast as we could. My arms and the dog’s saddlebags clinked and clanked with bottles and we stank of gasoline.

  Better than the stink of the living dead blood on the white hazmat suits Rachael and I wore. And the body odor stench of the guy who’d worn it before me.

  Oh, and for the record, I lied. To the two Rovers who I’d interrogated. I promised that they could walk if they told us everything they knew. No. They weren’t walking anywhere, not even as the walking dead.

  If I expected Rachael to give me a hard time about it, I underestimated her. Maybe the death of her friend Jason was too fresh in her mind. Or maybe surviving out here in this broken world has changed her. She watched me kill the Rovers and did not so much as blink.

  It made me a little sad, actually. For her.

  We skirted the edge of the field, catching glimpses of the fight. From what I could see, the Rovers had told us the truth. The massive frontal assault was still under way, but it was obvious the Rovers weren’t really trying to take the town.

  Not from the front anyway.

  No, the Rovers were being very smart and very devious.

  And so we ran, hoping there was still some time left on the clock.

  — 48 —

  THE SIEGE OF HAPPY VALLEY

  The Pack member left in charge of the rear was named Tammy-Ducks. She was nineteen, short and fit and smart. Until two months ago she’d been with a group of college kids who’d had to fend for themselves after the outbreak spilled over into a small sports venue where a gymnastics competition was underway. Tammy-Ducks was a gymnast, specializing in floor routines and the balance beam. She also had a little bit of judo from a two-credit course she took during her freshman year, and a lot of rough-and-tumble fighting tricks from growing up with four older brothers. The last seven members of her team were absorbed into the Pack after Dahlia and Slow Dog saved them from a large swarm of zombies.

  Tammy-Ducks had loved the training provided by Old Man Church—who she privately thought was sexy as hell, despite being really, really old and really, really scary. Like the other girls on the team, Tammy-Ducks was coordinated, fast, and knew how to learn.

  Now she and her teammates were in charge of keeping the rear wall safe.

  However, Tammy-Ducks was pretty sure they were all going to die.

  There was a sloping hill behind the wall that rose pretty sharply upward, and not a lot of open ground. Scrub pines littered the narrow gully between wall and hill, though, and obscured good lines of sight. There were people moving behind those trees, but she couldn’t tell how many. All she was sure of was that they were not dead people. They moved quickly and furtively, and every now and then she caught a quick flash of something. Possibly the reflection of sunlight off of binocular lenses. It made her deeply uneasy, because someone out there could see her more easily than she could see them.

  “Yuki,” she called to one of the other girls, “get me some binoculars, okay?”

  After a minute Yuki came along the narrow walkway inside the top of the wall and handed a pair to her. They were not very good glasses, but then again the distance wasn’t very long. Tammy-Ducks took them and peered through, adjusting the focus.

  “You see anything?” asked Yuki, squinting from beneath a shading hand.

  “Yeah, hold on . . . ”

  There was definitely movement in the trees. She saw several Rovers in leather moving quickly from right to left. They ran with unusual orderliness and then she realized why. They were running in pairs, each set carrying a ladder. Big aluminum extension ladders. The Rovers followed the uneven terrain away from the rear gate, though.

  “Crap,” she said.

  “What?” asked Yuki.

  “Wait, I see something else,” said Tammy-Ducks, draawn by another of the bright flashes. She rested her forearms on the wall to steady her sight and studied the shadows between two pines that grew very close together. Something was glinting there.

  Yes. There it was. Not binoculars at all. Only a single lens of a—

  She never hea
rd the shot. The sniper’s bullet punched through the right lens of her binoculars and blew out the back of her head. Tammy-Ducks fell backward off the wall without making a sound.

  ***

  Old Man Church ran with the young residents as they went from one home to another to retrieve hidden weapons. A pair of fine Winchester rifles, four .9mm handguns with multiple magazines, and a pump shotgun with two full boxes of buckshot. He handed out the weapons to the Pack members and a few helpers who’d come with them. One of the helpers, a good-looking Jamaican-American named Zack, accepted a Glock but then fumbled with an attempt to load it. The young man named Thomas held out his hand.

  “Let me,” he said. After only a moment’s pause, Zack handed him the gun. Thomas ejected the magazine, checked that it was loaded, and slapped it back in with a great show of competence. Then he reversed the weapon and offered it butt-first. “Like that.”

  Zack took it and for a moment they eyed each other with some level of communication that had nothing to do with their individual ethnicity or their place in the former structure of the Happy Valley community. When Zack took the weapon, his fingers brushed Thomas’s and there was a flicker in the air between them. Thomas smiled and turned away.

  “Get a room,” muttered Slow Dog, but the two men ignored him.

  The group moved on.

  Members of the Pack were running wildly to and fro carrying bags or laundry baskets or pushing wheelbarrows filled with bags of fertilizer, cans of hairspray, boxes of matches, bags of nails and screws to use as shrapnel, red cans of gasoline, containers of soap powder. All of the things Dahlia would need to construct fragmentation bombs and incendiary devices. Church approved and led his own team on, kicking in doors to find what they needed, taking direction from the young residents. Once everyone was armed with something—firearm, bladed farm tool, or baseball bat—Church led them to the western wall.