Tooth & Nail: A Rot & Ruin Story

by Jonathan Maberry

  Iron Mike’s smile grew cold. “I’m not on anybody’s side.”

  Marty studied his eyes, then turned and moved quickly away.

  When they were alone, Saint John said, “You try very hard to be impressive, Mr. Sweeney. Go ahead . . . impress me. Reveal your insights. What is it you think you know?”

  “Seriously? You want to go there.”

  “Seriously,” agreed the saint.

  “Okay. Like I said, I know you. I look through the windows of your eyes and I know you. I can see what made you.”

  “I doubt that . . .”

  “I can see the little boy you used to be. The tortured one. The abused one. The humiliated one.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that. Before the Fall the newspapers ran all sorts of stories speculating about me. They trotted out FBI profilers who said that I was the product of an abusive home life. All very cliché.”

  “All very true.”

  “You’re trying to buy your life back by teasing me with information anyone could have gotten.”

  Mike slowly shook his head. “I know the secret word. . . .”

  Saint John froze.

  “I know what it is and where it is,” said Mike. “A word your father burned into your skin with cigarette butts. A word that he burned onto your mother’s face right before she killed herself. Do you want me to tell you what that word is?”

  The saint did not reply. His mouth went dry, and his heart beat with strange rhythms.

  “I know what you did to your father,” continued Iron Mike. “I know what you did to try and stop the pain. The horror. The ugliness.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No . . . you can’t know that. No one . . .” Saint John’s voice died in his throat.

  The prisoner shook his head slowly. “Look . . . you and I aren’t as different as you might think. I did my own time in hell when I was a kid, and I have the scars to prove it. Inside and out. I know what it feels like to be turned from an innocent kid into a monster. Believe me . . . I know.”

  “You don’t know my life,” murmured the saint. “No one knows what happened. . . .”

  “Look at me,” said Iron Mike quietly, “and tell me if I’m like anyone you ever met.”

  Saint John shook his head.

  “Look at me and tell me if you ever saw anyone like me except in the mirror.”

  “No.”

  Saint John tried to stare the man down, but the longer he looked into those burning red eyes, the more he felt the ground beneath him begin to melt, to turn to quicksand.

  “What are you?” he demanded.

  “I’m like you,” said Mike Sweeney. “I’m a monster. We were both born in a furnace, raised by predators, and then vomited out into the world.”

  “Monster . . . ,” echoed Saint John. His knees wanted to buckle.

  “You call yourself a saint of god,” mocked Mike Sweeney. “It’s a front, it’s a paint job you slap over bare stone walls. I know all about that. I wanted to remake myself too. I wanted to whitewash my soul. I couldn’t do it before the world ended. Not really. But every day since, I’ve been trying to be a new person. Not the thing my father made me . . . no, I wanted to be the man I should have been if the old world had shown me even a splinter of grace.” He laughed, short and bitter, full of nails and broken glass. “But maybe people like us can’t really ever escape who we are. I was a monster before the Fall and I’m a monster now. A different kind of monster, sure, but then again it’s a different world.”

  “I’m not a monster,” said Saint John in a low, tight voice that was filled with menace. “I am a saint of god.”

  Iron Mike studied him for a long moment, then sighed and nodded. “Maybe you are. Maybe even heaven’s broken and the old gods are fighting over the scraps. One of them might need a man like you to be his garbage collector down here. What do I know? But if you’re a saint of your god, then maybe I’m a hound of mine.”

  Saint John’s lips formed the words “hound of god.”

  Mike grinned with red-streaked teeth and eyes the color of blood.

  The saint said, “You speak of mysteries. You speak as if you know about me.”

  “I do.”

  “You can’t.”

  Iron Mike shrugged as best he could—a lift of muscular shoulders and a smile that seemed unable to acknowledge fear or the presence of death. Saint John searched the man’s strange eyes, looking for a sliver of doubt, of fear, even of humanity. All he saw was something alien, something that did not fit into his world or his faith.

  And that was an impossible thing.

  That had never happened before.

  Not once.

  As if sensing his thoughts, Iron Mike gave a sad shake of his head. “You’re looking in the wrong direction.”

  “What do you mean? We know the towns are in—”

  “No,” said the prisoner. “That’s not what I mean. I’m talking about when you look at the world. All you can see is the world of machines and governments and science—all the things your kind hate; and when you look into the future, all you see is the end of all pain and the simplicity of your darkness. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “What else is there?”

  Iron Mike flexed his hands and gave a playful tug on his bonds. “You seem like a smart guy, educated. Ever read Hamlet? Remember the scene in the graveyard, that line everybody quotes? ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy?”

  Saint John said nothing.

  The prisoner nodded, however, as if the saint had acknowledged the quote and its meaning. “You treasure the darkness, and who knows, maybe you’re really damaged enough to serve your version of the darkness with your whole heart, but—”

  “My ‘version’?” cut in Saint John. “There is only the darkness.”

  “Ah,” said Iron Mike, “you’d better hope not. You’d better hope that there are many kinds of darkness. That’s what I believe. Hell, I bet we even see different stars when we look up at the night sky. I believe there are worlds within worlds, shadows within shadows.”

  Saint John grunted with disgust. It was a dismissive sound. “What a pity,” he said, “after all of this it turns out that you are merely mad. For a moment there, I will admit, I believed that you had insight, that you were some kind of damaged prophet. But . . . no. Merely another person driven mad by having to endure endless days in this world of flesh.”

  Something flickered in the prisoner’s eyes, but Saint John could not accurately read it.

  “It’s okay if you believe that,” said Iron Mike. “Sometimes even I think I’m nuts. If you’ve seen the things I’ve seen, done the things I’ve done, saw the world through my eyes . . .” The prisoner laughed quietly and shook his head. “Being insane would be nice. It would be a kindness, and I can’t remember the last time this universe threw me a bone. Everything I’ve ever loved has died or been torn away from me. Am I crazy? I wish to god—any god who will listen, even your god—that I was.”

  “I pity you,” said Saint John, and he mostly meant it. This man disturbed him on so many levels. His words, as mad as they were, threatened to open doors in his head that had long since been nailed shut and bricked up. “Tell me where the Nine Towns are and I will end your pain and your suffering. I will send you on into the darkness.”

  “Killing me would be a blessing,” said Iron Mike, “but not in the way you think.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing, nothing . . . but . . .”

  “But what?”

  Iron Mike looked up at the trees, above which the sun was a bright ball of fire. He closed his eyes and took in a long, deep breath.

  “It’s going to be a full moon tonight,” he said, eyes still closed. “Did you know that?”

  “So what?”

  Iron Mike opened his eyes, and they seemed to burn with palpable heat.

  “You really don’t understa
nd this world,” he said in a voice that was not at all human. It was low and wild and wrong. “There’s darkness and then there’s darkness. Real darkness. You think you understand what’s on the other side? You want to go into the darkness? You crave it. Keep thinking that, keep bringing pain to people who aren’t as strong or as crazy as you. But when it’s your time, when you step through the door into the big black . . . I’ll be waiting there for you. And I’ll show you what darkness really means.”

  In a flash, before he knew he was going to do it, Saint John drew a knife and buried the blade in Mike Sweeney’s chest.

  The big man made a single sound. It was not a grunt of pain. Not even of surprise.

  It sounded more like a snort of mocking laughter.

  Saint John tore his knife free and stared numbly at the bloody blade, watching in detached fascination as the red dripped down onto his hand. With a cry he flung the knife into the woods.

  Then he spun away and fled.

  When he reached his bodyguards, he waved them away and hurried toward the road where the army waited. Brother Marty followed at a run.

  “Honored one,” panted Marty, “what happened down there? What did he say to you?”

  Saint John suddenly wheeled, and one bloody hand darted out and caught Marty by the front of his shirt. He lifted the smaller man to his toes, pulled him so close that spit flecked Marty’s face as the saint spoke in a fierce whisper.

  “We will never speak of this again. Never. I will personally flay the skin from anyone who mentions that man’s name. I will cut his tongue out and nail it to his—”

  “Honored one,” croaked Marty, “please, please . . . it’s okay, it’s all cool. We don’t need that freak.”

  Saint John’s eyes blazed at him, and it took a visible effort of will to stop the flow of his words and respond with a modicum of calm. “What do you mean?”

  “Look at this.” Marty reached into his pocket and removed a folded paper and, with a flick of his wrist, shook it out. He held it up to show the saint. It was an old AAA road map of California. Dozens of notations had been handwritten onto the map. “The wagon driver had this under the seat. Look there . . . see? Haven, Mountainside, New Town . . . and six others. All nine towns are marked clear as day.”

  Slowly, slowly . . . Saint John eased the force of his grip on Brother Marty’s shirt, letting the smaller man settle back onto his feet. Marty held the map out like it was an offering, or a shield. Saint John snatched it from him and stared at it.

  Saint John closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. When he opened them, the look of wild panic in the saint’s eyes scared Marty more than anything had since the dead rose. This was not a man who was ever frightened. Not of the living or the dead.

  The map seemed to work some magic on Saint John. Calming him, driving the wildness from his eyes. The saint took another breath and let it out slowly.

  “There is great evil all around us, my friend,” he said in a ragged voice. “The sooner this world is destroyed, the safer all our souls will be.”

  He turned and walked away.

  Brother Marty stood there, quivering, bathed in cold sweat.

  Marty cast a nervous look down the slope to where the red-haired man hung between two trees. Even now, even slumped in death, there was something about the prisoner.

  Something deeply, deeply wrong.

  Marty backed away, spun, and ran to catch up with Saint John.

  12

  Sanctuary

  Area 51

  Benny whirled and saw more reapers emerge from points of concealment. Six of them.

  No . . . seven.

  His mouth went instantly dry, and his heart sank all the way to his feet.

  “Oh God . . . ,” he whispered.

  One reaper, a tall man with a hook nose and tattooed beetles and scorpions covering every inch of his shaved head, pointed at Benny with a two-handed field scythe, but spoke to the other reapers. “You see, my brothers and sisters? He calls on a false god when confronted by the servants of the only true god. All hail Thanatos.”

  “Praise be to his darkness,” intoned the others in unison.

  Benny licked his lips, which were so dry it felt like they were covered with sand. “I don’t want any trouble.”

  It sounded as lame as it was, and the reapers smiled.

  “Unless you accept the darkness, you are lost in a world of trouble.”

  Benny looked quickly around. There were five men and two women, all of them lean and hard-looking, all of them armed with knives and swords. Their white angel wings seemed to glow with inner light on their chests, as if the intensity of their strange beliefs burned with real fire.

  “Kneel, brother,” said the man with the scythe. “Humble yourself and pray for release, and in the name of our god we will send you into the sweet and perfect darkness.”

  Benny stood and considered the man and his offer. Then he reached over his shoulder and slowly drew the kami katana.

  “Or not,” he said.

  The reapers looked at the sword and then at the teenage boy who held it.

  They burst out laughing.

  It was, Benny mused, not exactly the ideal reaction.

  His mind was racing furiously, trying to remember every lesson Tom had ever taught him. The path he’d used to come up here was behind him and he could reach it, but it was impossible to negotiate it fast enough to stay alive. Even though none of these reapers carried bows and arrows—and none of them ever carried guns—they could simply stand at the edge of the cliff wall and throw stones at him. They’d batter him off the wall and send him plunging down into the jagged rocks below.

  All other potential routes out of here were blocked by reapers. Benny could see some paths beyond them. One wending through dry grass looked well trodden. Benny realized with a jolt that the reapers must have been using this spot to observe Sanctuary. Why weren’t there soldiers up here? There were soldiers across the trench below; Benny had seen a few. Why wouldn’t they have people up here?

  Or . . . had some of these reapers once been soldiers who’d been forced to kneel and kiss the knife, to accept membership into a church built on total human extinction?

  Too many questions. Not enough time to discover answers.

  All that was left for Benny to do was fight.

  The reaper with the scythe had been watching him very closely and must have seen the acceptance of the inevitable in Benny’s eyes. He raised his scythe.

  “Kill him,” he said.

  And the reapers, with their smiling faces and gleaming knives, attacked.

  13

  Rattlesnake Valley Motor Court

  Southern California

  “Heather,” snarled Samantha as she crouched over the female reaper. “Watch her.”

  Heather had another arrow fitted and she drew it back, aiming at the woman’s chest. Samantha quickly searched the woman and removed four other knives. Two were very good and she pocketed those; the rest she flung into the brush, where they vanished completely. She did the same with the ax and the weapons of the men. Then, while Heather kept watch, Samantha ran quickly down the path to survey the forest. There were no other reapers that she could see, which meant that they had split up to search the woods. That was good for the moment, but she and Heather would have to get out of here soon and warn the others. As she started to turn away, she caught sight of several figures farther down the slope. Slow, clumsy figures, but they were coming this way.

  Zombies.

  She turned and ran back to the site of the ambush.

  The reaper woman was still semi-dazed from the vicious blow of Samantha’s spear, and her eyes were glassy.

  Samantha knelt in front of her and once more put the knife edge against her throat.

  “Who are you and why are you killing people?”

  The woman sneered. “A killer asks a question like that?”

  “Self-defense, sister. You started this when you tried to kill my friend. So
what’s with that? World’s full of zombies and you want to start killing some of the people who are trying to survive?”

  The woman actually managed to smile. “You’re a heathen and a blasphemer and you wouldn’t understand.”

  Samantha had heard those words “heathen” and “blasphemer” only in old Bible stories. She couldn’t imagine how they applied to something like this.

  “Try me,” she said, and emphasized the request by pressing harder with her knife.

  “We are reapers of the Night Church, faithful servants of the Lord Thanatos, all praise his darkness. We are the soldiers of our god. We are sent into the wasteland to find all those who defy our god’s will by clinging to the lie that is life.”

  “What? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Not to the unenlightened.” The woman continued to smile. “When the old world ended, many people believed that it was the judgment of their god. And in a way it was, but the god of the old world, the god of the Christians and Jews and Muslims, and the heathen gods of the Hindus and all those other false idols were proven to be lies told by blasphemers. The truth is that Lord Thanatos—all praise to his darkness—is the one true god, and he has judged mankind and found it wanting. He raised the dead, his holy gray people, to open red mouths in the flesh of all who live in this world of sin. Through the sacred doorway of death the impure are made pure, and in the vast and formless darkness they know true peace and joy.”

  Samantha almost smiled. “Wait, let me get this straight . . . you people believe that we have to die to be saved?”

  “Of course.”

  “And that’s why you’re killing everyone you meet?”

  “We bring the blessings of Saint John of the Knife, the holy minister of our god. With the sacred blades we open the doorways to—”

  “Paradise, right, I got it. But you guys have a weird double standard. You believe in death, but you’re still breathing and running around causing problems.”

  “No,” said the woman, “we remain clothed in flesh only until the full will of god is completed. And then, with joy and songs on our lips, we will open the red mouths in each other’s—”