Christopher looked away from them as they disappeared. Glanced at Buck. The big man shook his head and shrugged at the same time. A gesture that said, "I don't know, what do you think?" Christopher returned the motion. Then spun and followed Maggie and the Māori.
The dirt between this row of asparagus and the next was a bit wider than most. It had to be, to accommodate the opening on the ground. A trapdoor was propped open on what looked like a hydraulic system. The door itself was thick, probably steel, shiny on the underside. The upper surface was mottled and gray, crafted to look like a flat boulder, half-buried in hard earth. Some kind of blast hatch, Christopher figured. And from the look of it, one that was designed to be more or less undetectable from above and impregnable from any side.
The tunnel under the door was circular, made of corrugated steel. A pipe, big enough to stand in, but only just. The pipe angled down, metal stairs making for easy walking, though the angle itself seemed strange: a gentle slope that was less than the typical stairway.
The Māori was walking slowly, either because of Maggie or so he could show the others the way down. Sally moved just ahead of them, his tail flicking up to touch Liz's toes from time to time. And as before the hunter showed no interest in the snow leopard.
"The angle of the tunnel is thirty degrees, so as to deflect gamma radiation," said the Māori. He waited until Buck was well inside the tunnel, then hit a bright yellow button on the wall. Something whirred and the hatch shut. "The blast hatch is rated to withstand fire, direct explosive attack, electromagnetic pulse, and radiation."
"How much does this tour cost?" said Christopher. The quip made it out before he could think of the wisdom of making fun of a man who was a crack shot and who had just effectively buried them beneath a ton of steel.
"A person who mistreats his guest has a dusty Marae," responded the man. He turned and continued down.
"What did that mean?" whispered Buck.
Christopher nodded in what he hoped was a wise way. He had no idea what the hunter was talking about, but he knew that seeming to know would drive Buck bonkers.
It's the little pleasures that matter when you're buried at the edge of the world's end.
He followed their savior, their host. And hoped the man would not also prove to be their captor.
8
CHRISTOPHER HAD HEARD of survivalist types, of course. The type of people who secreted themselves in the wilds of Nowhere, U.S.A., along with caches of freeze-dried foods and assault rifles big enough to fight off invading armies and/or zombie hordes. He had always thought the idea a ridiculous one. Had laughed at them.
Who's laughing now?
Still, the idea he had of a survivalist bunker hardly matched what he saw when the hunter took them through the entry tunnel into what must be the main part of the underground shelter.
Christopher expected dark gray walls, fluorescents lights protected by steel cages. Bunk beds with paper-thin mattresses that were covered by burlap bedding designed less for warmth than exfoliation.
Instead he got a living room.
The space was about twenty feet square. Walls that curved gently inward, making it clear that they had gone from one pipe to another, much larger, one. But they were painted a pleasant powder blue. A brown leather couch with forest green throw pillows sat next to a matching love seat, both of them angled so the flatscreen television on the opposite wall could be easily seen. Between them a nice oriental carpet covered a clean tile floor.
At the far end of the room, cabinets stacked against the wall. Again, they were far from the utilitarian metal shelving Christopher would have expected. Well-crafted walnut with brass fittings.
The cabinets created a ring around another blast hatch – closed – and in front of them sat a round table with four chairs. The tabletop was green felt, and looked like the type that could be removed and flipped over to reveal a checkerboard on the inside: a poker and gaming table.
"Holy cow," said Christopher. "You go to Hell in style."
The Māori helped Maggie onto the couch. She sank down, seeing nothing but empty space. At least, Christopher hoped that was what she was seeing. Worse would be if she was trapped in a place where all that existed was an endless loop of her husband, chest exploding, blood spurting then slowing to nothing as he bled out.
Please let her be somewhere else.
"Who are you, Mister?" said Buck. He put Hope down next to her mother. Neither the little girl, the baby, nor the mother moved. A frozen tableau that gave Christopher the creeps. So did Buck's question, an eerie echo of something they had asked of Aaron: "Who are you?" The cowboy was a military man, a soldier, a killer. A friend and enemy at once. And would this new hunter prove to be the same kind of person? This same mix of light and dark?
Sally lay down at Maggie's feet. Stretched out on his belly, licking his forepaws clean of the mud that had dared soil them.
"I am Mohonri Moriankumr Ngata," said the man. He bowed slightly at the waist, then hung his hunting rifle from a pair of hooks on the wall above the poker table and began to strip off his ghillie suit.
"Mohonri Mor... Mor... Moria...." Buck struggled with the second part of the name for a few moments before giving up.
"Moriankumr," said the Māori. "Most people just call me Mo."
Christopher blinked. His father had been governor of Idaho before the Change. Before half the world turned to zombies and killed the other half. His parents had attacked each other right in front of him; had been a bloody mass of twitching tissue when he ran from their house.
Not that they liked each other before it all happened.
But because of who his father was, Christopher recognized the name. It belonged to one of the largest voting blocs in the state, and one his father had taken care to cultivate. Governor Elgin had been a terrible father, but a good politician. He knew how to make friends with his constituents, and Christopher kept his ears open at the dinner table – on those rare occasions when he was allowed to eat with His Greatnessness. One of the Men of Power who had dined at his father's table had this name – one that some would laugh at, had the man not been worth so many millions.
"You a Mormon?" he said.
Mo wagged his head back and forth. "Half. My mother was. It was she who gave me my name."
"So...." Buck struggled to process the information. "A Mormon Māori in Idaho who owns an underground survival shelter? Wasn't New Zealand isolated enough?"
Mo opened his mouth and laughed. He had teeth that were a bit yellow, like he had spent years drinking coffee or smoking. Or just had bad teeth. The discoloration didn't inhibit his mirth, though: the laugh was deep and loud and long.
"You have said it better than most, my friend." He finished peeling off his camouflage. Beneath it he wore only a white t-shirt and a pair of novelty boxer shorts – white with bright red lipstick marks all over them. He showed no embarrassment at his dress, or even seemed to notice what he was wearing.
Unlike the movie stars, the people who frequented gyms in every city, and every other slave to fashion whom Christopher had seen wearing "tribal" tattoos in recent years, the Māori's arms were bare of ornamentation. But gray lines that matched those on his face reached out from under his boxers, making their way almost to Mo's knees. Christopher wondered how high they went. Wondered if the old man's groin was marked up as well.
Mo went to one of the cabinets and opened it. Removed a large box marked with a red cross. He opened it and revealed the most prodigious and well-stocked first aid kit Christopher had ever seen. He removed several gauze pads.
Buck moved forward. "Let me."
"I am able, friend."
"Don't be an idiot."
Mo grinned like Buck had just said something singularly hilarious, then took the first aid kit to the table and sat down. Buck touched Hope's forehead. The little girl was still sitting motionless, and Buck paused a moment, too. For some reason he looked more like father than friend to the little girl.
And for some reaso
n Christopher felt a chill roll over him.
Then Buck went to Mo. He rifled through the first aid kit, pulling out more gauze and some antibiotic cream before sitting on one of the other chairs.
"That must hurt like a bitch," he said.
"It does not tickle," Mo agreed. "But I believe the bullets went through, and no bones broke. It was a lucky wound."
Buck snorted. He took some scissors out of the kit and cut Mo's shirt away, tossing the bloody mess behind him.
Beneath the shirt was a gorefest. Blood streamed in a continuous river from two dark holes in the man's shoulder. It was enough that it almost distracted from the tattoos that covered Mo's chest, stomach, and back. Almost. The same curls and ridges, etched directly into the skin, made him into a full-body mask. Christopher couldn't imagine going through something like that for anything, let alone for a simple cultural gesture. But then, it was partially thanks to that toughness that they were all here.
Buck hissed at the wounds – or maybe at the sight of the tattoos. Then he stood and looked over the top of Mo's shoulder.
"Looks about the same back here." He shook his head and started to open the gauze and tear long strips of medical tape.
"Shouldn't he have stitches?" said Christopher. He felt like an idiot when he said it, wished he could yank the words back and swallow them.
Buck snorted. "Sure. We'll just take him to St. Al's and ask the zombie doctors to patch him up." He turned his head for a moment. "You know how to stitch people?"
Christopher shook his head. He felt like the village idiot on a bad day.
"Me either," said Buck. "You?" he said to Mo.
The Māori shook his head. "Alas, I do not. But if I may suggest...?"
"I'm open to whatever," said Buck.
"There are feminine hygiene products in the kit," said Mo.
"You just get your period?" said Buck.
Christopher saw where the hunter was going. "Tampons?" he said.
Mo nodded. Christopher felt a bit less like a moron. He darted forward, found them. He grabbed four. "Move, Clucky," he said.
Buck growled. "Don't call me that."
"You're lucky I don't call you something else that rhymes with 'Buck.' Move."
Buck did. Christopher sat opposite Mo. "You ready for this?" Mo nodded. His face was impassive under the tattoos. "You get those in New Zealand?" said Christopher. Talking more to calm himself than his patient. He suspected Mo wouldn't need calming no matter what: permanent serenity, whether at church or facing a tsunami composed of rabid bears that shot lasers out of their faces.
Mo nodded again as Christopher realized he was about to kill Mo with infection. He found some alcohol pads and scrubbed the dirt off his hands as well as he could, then found a pair of latex gloves in the first aid kit and snapped them over the grungy mess he had created. "What brings you to Idaho?"
Idiot question. Might as well ask if he's going to the movies this weekend. Who cares?
Who cares about anything?
A sudden wave of sadness crashed over him. He saw her –
(little girl little bracelet I gave her sawing through thick metal with a face turned into a buzzsaw then a face turned into nothing when I swung the axe)
– and almost stopped moving. Only Mo's voice drew him back to reality.
"My mother died. She was of this place and wished to be buried with her people."
"Sorry." Christopher slathered antibiotic cream over Mo's wounds, front and back. He put so much on that it looked eerily like the yellow junk the zombies barfed up and secreted from their wounds, the waxy goo they seemed to both build with and that somehow healed them of what should be deadly injuries.
"Do not be," said Mo. He didn't even wince as Christopher worked. "It was some time ago. I fell in love with this place. It is different from the land of my birth, but it became my home."
Christopher unwrapped one of the tampons. He looked at it in confusion.
"What?" said Buck.
"I have no idea how to use these things," said Christopher.
"A problem," said Mo. "Especially since I believe I am about to pass out."
9
THE WORDS SCARED CHRISTOPHER, which was a surprise considering he'd known the tattooed man for only a few minutes. At first he thought the idea of being stuck down here would be terrifying, but the place suddenly seemed like a rare refuge in a fatal world. Mo was their protector and host, perhaps the only thing that stood between the group and the danger outside the shelter.
And here he was: an idiot male who didn't know how to work a tampon. He knew what he had to do with it, but not how to do it. The workings of the thing were as foreign to him, as suddenly complex-seeming, as the inner mechanisms of a supercomputer.
He was on the verge of panicking. His hand started to shake.
"What's going on?" Buck said.
"I would appreciate it if you hurried," said Mo. He started to weave in his seat. Gripped the table with a hand that was normally walnut brown but now turned ash gray at the fingertips and knuckles.
A hand lay across Christopher's own shaking one. Smaller. Stable.
Maggie.
She didn't speak. Just took the tampon from his hand. Looked at him. Waited.
Christopher felt the fear fall from him, fall out of him. For more than one reason. Ken's wife still looked borderline shell-shocked. Still on the verge of a collapse. But she had moved of her own accord. She had rejoined them and was prepared to do what needed to be done.
"I want to use them on the wounds," Christopher told her.
"Really?" said Buck. "Yuck, are you serious?"
Maggie was already moving as Christopher rounded on his most irritating – and in this underground hospital at the edge of the world, perhaps best – friend. "You know what these things do?" he demanded. "They suck up blood like nobody's business. So unless you know how to perform emergency surgery...." He turned back to look at Maggie. "But I don't really know how to get the stuff out of the... thing...." Maggie put on a pair of gloves, then placed the end of tampon tube against the first bullet hole, one of the ones on the front of the Māori's shoulder. The face under the tattoos grew a bit paler, but the man made not a sound.
Maggie pushed something on the back of the tube, then pulled the tube away. A flattened chunk of cotton was now stuck in the gore, string trailing away from it. "Cool," he said. Then turned to Buck and assumed his best professor impression. "And the string," he continued as he slapped a trio of gauze patches over the string, then secured them with enough medical tape to hold a Sherman tank in place, "makes 'em easy to pull off later."
He could practically hear Buck's jaw bouncing off the floor tiles and couldn't help but grin. When life was grim, the little pleasures ballooned in importance. Buck's raw stupefaction felt like a trip to Disneyland in that moment: a magic kingdom in a doomed world.
"Your friend," said Mo, grimacing as Maggie inserted the next tampon, then moved to his back, a third and fourth gripped in her hand, "is a bit high-strung."
Christopher snorted. "High-strung is an understatement. Buck makes bomb disposal workers look like Tahitian hula dancers."
"Tahiti is lovely this time of year. But no vacation is a likely to happen in these times, I think," said Mo.
Christopher nodded. A sobering thought.
Mo grunted again. Maggie finished. Her hands were covered in blood. She still had Lizzy strapped to her back, Christopher realized. He also saw that the two-year-old was blinking blearily. Looking around like she didn't know where she was, what was happening.
Christopher felt a flutter of fear. Sometimes the toddler was a toddler. Other times she seemed intent on helping the things that had followed the group, the things that had destroyed – replaced – humanity. Like she was a defector or a traitor in their midst.
What would she be this time?
A thud drew his attention away from the little girl.
Mo had finally passed out.
10
/> WHAT NOW?
No one responded, and it took Christopher a moment to realize he hadn't actually spoken. Another moment in which he wondered if he was starting the long downhill slide into Crazyland, with a short layover in Coocooville.
He had known quite a few nuts in his life. You didn't grow up as the son of a career politician without seeing a psycho or three. The idea of joining their ranks didn't appeal to him.
Before he could actually give voice to his words, Buck stole the chance from him. "What now?"
Christopher didn't know what bugged him more – that the big man had said it before he could, or that he had said the same words he had wanted to. Was Christopher destined to grow up that way? A high-voiced balding guy with a perma-scowl and mommy issues? Not that he didn't have his own mommy – and daddy – issues. But they were his, dammit. He didn't want to have Buck's, too.
"We have to go back," whispered Maggie. She moved back to the couch.
Buck rolled his eyes. "He'll be waiting for that," he said. "Aaron's bound to be looking for us around here. We go back to Ken and we're going to get killed."
"We have to go back," was all she said. She wasn't looking at anyone, and Christopher wondered if she was even speaking to them. If she had retreated to whatever place it was that offered her some comfort or safety in the dark moments when she found herself without a husband she loved and a man who had rescued her and her children.
And from what? What did Ken do all this for?
A good question. When they'd found Maggie and the little girls, they'd been on one of the top floors of a high rise, surrounded by zombies and cocooned in some sort of webbing. Not dead, but asleep. Drugged somehow.
What had happened to them?
Buck had been there, too. But he had acted normal this whole time.
(other than that touch that strange touch to Hope just now so is something happening to Buck too or is it just my imagination and exhaustion and fear?)
And Maggie had seemed just as normal.
The Complete Colony Saga [Books 1-7] Page 63