Still of Night

by Jonathan Maberry

  Then she flattened down a split second before the ANFO bomb exploded.

  ***

  Gutter saw the red can and laughed at that, too. He thought that it was a last-ditch attempt to do damage. Throwing any old shit they could pick up. What was next, he thought, a porta-potty?

  That was the thought in his mind when the ANFO bomb detonated with such force that it stripped the hazmat suit from his body and most of the flesh from his face. The spinning shrapnel of nails and screws and pins scythed through him as if he was made of paper. All around him Rovers and zombies were caught in the blast.

  Only the zombies survived. In pieces, but they survived.

  The next bombs came arcing over the wall toward other groups of Rovers.

  Then thin-walled plastic bottles filled with alcohol and trailing blazing strips of cloth smashed down amid the zombies. The fragile plastic burst apart or was stepped on, and the fires leapt up to bite into torn clothing and withered skin.

  The flames shot hot into the sky. They were visible for miles. And certainly visible from around the corner, on the east side of the wall.

  ***

  Big Elroy grinned. Gutter and his boys had done it. They were breaching the walls. He could see the flames licking at the sky and it made him feel like Napoleon. Like Genghis Khan.

  He raised his axe, paused for a moment, and then swept it down.

  The forest seemed to burst apart as hundreds of Rovers ran out in a weird, ghastly silence. No cheers, no battle cries. This was the real attack. Cold and precise and silent. While all eyes and ears were drawn to the sniper, the ladder teams on the west and the big assault at the front door, the army of the Rovers raced across the open lawn to where their ladders were hidden beneath blankets of loose sod. It was clockwork. Three men flipped aside the sod; four men grabbed the ladders and rushed the walls; teams of shooters knelt and trained weapons on the wall in case anyone was up there. They needed only thirty seconds to do this and then the wall would be theirs. Once they were inside, they had the numbers and the training, and the town would fall.

  This, Big Elroy knew, was how battles were won—training, nerve, imagination, and discipline.

  The ladders rose. One, two, three, four . . . all the way up to twelve. Big men took up positions to brace them as other Rovers swarmed up, weapons slung, ready to take and own the wall.

  If any of them noticed the stink of alcohol or gasoline on the rungs of the ladders, there was no time to stop and check it out. There was no time to comment on it. They had to move fast, fast, fast.

  Only a few of them saw the two handlers in white Hazmat suits stand up from behind a hillock. Those few saw the Molotov cocktails and did not understand. Was that part of the assault? If so, when was that added to the plan? And why?

  And why were the handlers throwing the flaming bottles toward the base of the ladders instead of trying to lob them over the wall?

  From his hill, Big Elroy saw this with a clearer perspective. He felt the blood drain from his face.

  “No,” he said. But he said it to himself, and he said it too late.

  The bottles broke and splashed flames everywhere. On the lawn, where the Rovers clustered, waiting for their turn to ascend. On the ladders themselves, which were doused with accelerant. On the men crowding every rung of each of a dozen ladders. Everywhere.

  The whole eastern wall became a sheet of flame.

  In the space of five seconds, seventy-nine of the Rovers were burning. In the space of five more, the spilled gasoline on the turf chased down many more.

  Big Elroy watched a third of his army burn.

  And then above the flames, all along the walls, there were people. Men and women. Even from that distance, Big Elroy could hear the crackle of gunfire.

  The Rovers tried to run. And died.

  They tried to fight back. And died.

  A few swatted at the fires that consumed their friends. And died.

  Some dropped to their knees and begged for mercy. They died, too.

  Several of the Rovers abandoned the fight and ran for the closest section of woods. There, in the shadows beneath the trees, were two figures. A woman and a man, dressed in hazmat suits but without the hoods.

  No one who went into those woods came out again.

  ***

  The sniper in the back heard the screams and saw flames coming from the east, which made no sense. That wasn’t part of the plan. He signaled to his spotters and the three of them ran along the slope, hidden by the pines, hurrying to offer support to Big Elroy. They wanted to be part of the big push anyway.

  They got about halfway there when they saw something coming down the slope toward them. Something that ran on four feet, but was an impossible shape. Like a dog but with spikes.

  The sniper turned and raised his rifle, but he was one full second too late.

  ***

  The army of the dead was burning.

  Burning.

  Dahlia stood on the wall. Her face was covered with soot, her eyes stung. Her mind was numb and she was half deaf from all the explosions. Out in the field, the whole mass of the living dead was burning.

  Thousands of them.

  Burning.

  There was no sign at all of the Rovers. Not living ones, anyway. The bombs had done terrible work. The ANFO and the Molotov cocktails. The zombies had done the rest, killing even while they burned.

  Dahlia wiped something away from her cheek. She thought it was going to be a drop of someone’s blood. It wasn’t.

  She stood there for a long, long time looking at the wetness of her tears on her fingertips.

  ***

  Mr. Church stood on the wall. The Pack and the helpers were still firing. The Rovers, those few that remained, were falling. Dying. Ending.

  Far across the field, on a knoll, Church saw a big man on a horse. Another man was running toward him, wearing a hoodless hazmat suit with something strapped across his back. A sword of some kind, though the distance was too great to tell. It was almost certainly the man who’d thrown the fire bombs at the ladders. The one who’d boobytrapped the ladders. He was going after the mounted Rover with the axe. From what Church had learned over the last few weeks, he judged that the horseman was Big Elroy, leader of the Rovers. He had a couple of men with him, and they rushed to intercept the stranger. One of them had an automatic rifle; the other had a pair of long-bladed knives.

  The running man drew a pistol and fired while running. A difficult shot, even for an expert. The rifleman suddenly sat down and then fell sideways, the gun sliding from his hands. Then the running man tossed his gun away—empty, apparently—and reached over his head for the handle of the sword, drawing it with a flash of silver fire. A katana, thought Church. The Rover with the knives tried to intercept him, to keep the swordsman from Big Elroy, but the sword swept him away, cutting the man’s head, shoulder, and right arm off with a savage diagonal cut. Blood geysered up.

  Big Elroy charged down the hill, raising his axe for a murderous blow.

  The swordsman feinted toward the right, almost into the path of axe and horse, then pivoted left, turning into a full circle so that he came up on the horseman’s left. The blade flashed again and Big Elroy was falling, his foot still in the stirrup but the leg cut through below the knee. The Rover fell hard, and Church watched as the swordsman walked over to him, paused for only a moment, and then made a single, final cut.

  There was something about the man’s posture as he stood there looking down at the dead Rover. Something about the set of his shoulders, the way he turned to look back at the town.

  Church straightened slowly and wiped his eyes with his black gloves, hoping to clear his vision.

  “No,” he said softly.

  EPILOGUE

  — 1 —

  The day wore on. Long and sad and bloody.

  A few Rovers, not yet knowing they’d already lost, tried to climb the walls. Others—a scant few—fled into the woods and were never seen again. Or, if they
were, they did not wear necklaces of grisly souvenirs or claim to know anything at all about any gang by that name.

  The fires burned. Three houses in Happy Valley caught fire from drifting embers.

  Dahlia counted her own dead. Of the Pack members who’d followed her to Happy Valley, there was nineteen dead. Jumper was one of them, though no one had seen him fall. The town girl, Bree, was dead, killed by a shot fired from the field. Eleven helpers were dead, too.

  And more than two hundred Rovers.

  The living dead in the front field were left to burn. Some of the forest burned, too. It was later discovered that the clearing where helpers had been left to starve had burned. Claudia escaped, though, and found her way back to town.

  Joe Ledger, Rachael, and Baskerville came up to the back gate and knocked to be let it. It was Mr. Church who opened the door.

  The two men stood looking at each other for a long, silent time. The people around them—Rachael, Dahlia, Neeko, Slow Dog, and many others—waited them out. None of them understood.

  It was finally Joe Ledger who stepped forward and offered his hand. Church looked at it.

  “I . . . um . . . never figured you for the hugging type, boss,” said Ledger, his voice thick with emotion.

  “Times change, Captain,” said Church and he pulled Ledger into a fierce embrace. They stood there, hugging each other while Baskerville barked and wagged his tail.

  When Ledger finally stepped back, he said, “How?”

  But Church shook his head. “Stories for another time.” He paused. “But . . . Junie . . . ?”

  Ledger shook his head. Dahlia swore that Church aged ten years in that moment, and for the first time he really did look old.

  — 2 —

  The Pack stayed in Happy Valley. So did most of the helpers. A few left, needing to look for friends or family from which they’d become separated because of the forced servitude. Church sent them on their way with supplies and bodyguards.

  Rachael and Claudia lingered for a week, healing, grieving for Jason, and taking counsel from Ledger and Church. When the warrior woman finally left, there were tears in her eyes. She kissed Joe on both cheeks and hugged him for a long time. Then she left.

  The adult residents of Happy Valley were not released from captivity quickly because Dahlia was afraid they would be murdered. And, in fact, two of the helpers were caught trying to steal automatic weapons to exact justice for the horrible crimes.

  Dahlia asked Church what to do and he told her that she should make the decision. After days of deliberating, she decided to have a public hearing. The younger residents spoke for their families, but they did not make apologies. Some of the adults confessed and submitted themselves for any punishment offered.

  Dahlia used a blind lottery to create a jury of twelve. The trial took days, and everyone who wanted to have a say was allowed to do so. Everyone. When it was over, the jury went into one of the houses to deliberate. It took them three days to come to a decision.

  While Neeko counted out the votes, everyone sat in tense silence. Some people were crying. Helpers and residents. The verdict was given to Dahlia in a sealed envelope. People cried while they waited for her to read it. Residents, helpers, and even some members of the Pack. Dahlia held the sealed envelope and closed her eyes for a moment. Ledger stood beside her, his sword over his shoulder, a gun at his hip, and the big dog beside him. No one else was armed.

  The trial was held in a small town hall used for concerts and plays. Dahlia stood looking at everyone.

  “Okay,” she said and held up the envelope. “I have the verdict, but I want to say something first. I guess I need to make something clear, okay?”

  No one spoke.

  “I’m the judge. Mr. Church suggested it and you all voted on it. I’m the judge.”

  No one spoke.

  “That means that I get to decide on the punishment. The sentence. Whatever. I get to decide and you all have to accept it.”

  In the front row of the seats reserved for the defendants, Margaret Van Sloane sat straight as a ramrod, but her eyes were haunted. She was deeply afraid. No one seemed willing to offer her comfort. A lot of people gave her looks of unfiltered hate.

  Dahlia continued. “If the verdict is guilty, I can decide on what’s appropriate for punishment. I could have everyone on trial here locked away forever. I could have you shot. I could even take you out to the woods and tie you up like you did to all those people. I could do that, and I have enough people here to make sure that whatever I decide gets done.”

  No one spoke.

  “Same goes if the verdict is not guilty. I can impose all sorts of restrictions on you and make sure you work in the fields for the rest of your life. Even if the verdict says not guilty. I’m the judge and that means I guess I get to make the rules.”

  Ledger cut a look at Church, who gave a small shake of his head.

  Dahlia took a breath, then tore open the envelope. She read it, nodding to herself. When she looked up at the crowd, they were all staring at her, intent and tense.

  “Guilty,” she said. “I mean . . . of course they’re guilty.”

  There was a sob from one of the defendants. There were sobs from some of the helpers, too.

  Mr. Church cleared his throat. “And what is the sentence?” he asked.

  Dahlia nodded again and let the paper fall to the floor.

  “The world ended,” she said. “Maybe as much as seven billion people died. We’re pretty close to being extinct and yet you parasites dragged old thinking into this world. Hatred, intolerance, all of that. You had the chance to leave all of that behind and yet you didn’t. You tried to make it part of this world. You’re no better than the Rovers. You do know that, right?” She walked over to stand looking down at Margaret Van Sloane. “We killed the Rovers. Every last one of them we could find. And why? Because they were predators and monsters a lot worse than the living dead. All they wanted was to take, to own, to have. They weren’t going to give anything back to the world. So . . . tell me, Mayor Van Sloane, what should we do to you?”

  Van Sloane tried to meet her eyes, tried to stare Dahlia down, but she could not. Not one of the defendants could do that.

  “I should have you all killed,” Dahlia said to them. “I should. Hell, I know that’s what you would do.”

  She hooked a finger under the mayor’s chin and forced her head up.

  “Look at me,” she snarled.

  Van Sloane raised her eyes, though it clearly cost her the last of her dignity to do it.

  “I want to live in a better world than that,” said Dahlia. “I want to live in a world where people like you don’t get to make the rules. I want to live in a world where people like me do. And my friends. And the helpers. And, fuck, your own kids.”

  The room was absolutely silent.

  Dahlia released the woman’s chin.

  “My ruling is this. No one dies. No one goes to jail. No one gets staked out in the woods.” There were gasps and some small cries. Ledger rested his hand on the butt of his pistol and Baskerville got to his feet. To the defendants, Dahlia said, “And no one forgets, either.”

  She stepped back and licked her lips, which had gone paste dry.

  “The defendants have a choice. Something they didn’t give to the people who came here asking for help, for shelter. You can stay, but if you do, you have to leave all your old world shit behind. Racism, sexism, and all of that. Gone. Done. It dies right here and right now. I don’t care how you manage it. Pray, or do yoga or whatever. I don’t care. You take a scalpel and cut it out of who you are. If you can do that, then you can stay. I’m a sucker for a good redemption story. But,” she said, and the word was like a punch, “it better come from the heart, because we’ll be watching. This is our town now. The Pack and the helpers and anyone else who wants to make this a place worth living.”

  She bent over Van Sloane one last time.

  “If you can’t do that, then you’re gone. We wo
n’t hurt you. We’ll even give you weapons and supplies and help you get clear of these woods. But you can’t ever come back here, ‘cause if you do then I swear to God I’ll kill you myself.”

  Dahlia looked at everyone.

  “I’m going to give the defendants one day to decide. One day. If any of them leave, and you’re related to them, you can choose to go or stay. If you stay, you know my rules.”

  The silence that filled the room was massive and heavy, and she did not see acceptance on every face. She didn’t expect to. When she glanced at Mr. Church, though, she saw approval and something else. A smile. Small, but there.

  Thomas was the first person to start applauding. It wasn’t some cliché slow hand clap. He leaped to his feet with a cheer and began beating his hands together. So, too, did Zack. Despite all he had been through, so did Zack.

  After that it was thunder.

  Only a few of the defendants did not clap. Most did. Not all.

  — 3 —

  Joe Ledger stayed in town for a month.

  He spent many long hours talking with Mr. Church. He spent most of his days overseeing the repairs to the wall, including a massive and ambitious upgrade to the overall security. He trained scouts and fighters.

  Church was the unofficial mayor of the town, but after a few weeks he announced that Dahlia was a better candidate. There were a lot of arguments, but he won every single one of them.

  Ledger came to see him one evening and they sat in the backyard watching the stars. Most of that evening had been passed in silence. They’d told each other their tales.

  “You’re leaving, aren’t you?” asked Ledger.

  “Eventually. I want to help Dahlia for a while. She’s a remarkable young woman.”

  “She treats you like a father.”

  “There are worse things in the world to be,” said Church.

  “Look, why don’t you come with me? I’m going to see if I can find Top or Bunny. Hopefully both. Then maybe push west, see what’s happening on the west coast.”

  Church thought about it. “Maybe. But you go first. I have some things to do and then, if I can, I’ll find you out there.”