by Oliver Atlas
His big shoulders slump. Then they start to shake with laughter.
And then I hear it, a faint rumble. A whistle.
A train.
I don’t have time to think. With a whistle of his own, Yaverts spurs Brom west at a madcap gallop. Before I can say a word, Enemy gives chase. I want to ask why the train is a problem, because I don’t see the rush. But whether because he doesn’t want me to object or because there’s truly no time to argue, he has put an end to debate. All we have to do now is run.
Yaverts pushes Brom faster and faster until Enemy can’t keep up. Behind us, a whistle screams, loud now, nearer with every second. I glance behind. The train’s still a mile back and gaining fast. Ahead of us, about half a mile, the great throng of ghouls begins. Our little stretch of highway offers the only visible window through it.
The only window.
The pylon-lined road.
But not the railroad tracks . . .
. . . the railroad tracks that converged with the road not far behind us and run parallel with the road the rest of the way to Bentlam . . . the railroad tracks that now stretch not more than five yards away from us . . . the railroad tracks which, not far ahead, are impossibly dense with loitering zombies.
No.
Oh no, no, no. The train. They can’t. They wouldn’t. They aren’t.
Jenny is right with me though, ready to say what I’m not ready to believe. “Blake!” she yells. “They’re not going to stop!”
She’s right. The train is about to plow right through a half mile of zombies. The carnage is terrible to think about, but what’s even worse is imagining how many bodies it will fling onto the parallel highway, into our way. And who knows?—could the train cause a dead-head stampede chaotic enough to ignore the pylons and flood the road? We’re about to find out.
The train screams again. The noise of its chugging swells.
We have to outrace it.
In another minute we’re thick into that narrow channel of a zombie sea. North and south become a blur of lolling mouths and rolling eyes. Rotting hands grope for us through pylons’ all-too-ethereal, psychological force field. The unimaginable weight of dead human flesh leans forward, straining.
The sight is so atrocious I can’t imagine when it will leave my mind and I shout to Jenny above the clop of Enemy’s hooves, “Close your eyes!”
The train has about caught us. A quarter mile becomes a tenth of a mile. The whistle’s shriek is wide in my ears, muddled with a new muffled screech, a mindless wave of anger and surprise. I know what’s happening, but I can’t imagine what it must look like. And I don’t look back.
But then the train is in the corner of my eye—and flying bodies with it. Human parts begin spraying outward and upward in macabre exuberance. A moment later, Enemy leaps forward, somehow darting past a hurtling zombie. Yaverts glances back, his green eyes wide. My own gaze leaps ahead, trying to spot the end of the swarm and the start of the safety perimeter.
Another quarter mile to the pylons. Another thirty seconds.
Zombies are raining into the road now, one and two—three, four, five. The train rumbles past us, spraying more and more onto the path ahead. The masses between the roads and the tracks have begun pressing into the southern lane, dazed and reeling from the pylon’s frequency, but shrinking our passage by half. Yaverts slows until Brom is stride for stride with Enemy, guarding our southern side. His pistol is out, spraying the zombies ahead of us. Hit by a speeding train or not, most of them are already up—up and hobbled and ravenous—crowding a corridor of road that’s at best twenty feet wide.
Fifty yards before we’ve reached the perimeter beyond the giant pylons, the train engine breaks through into the clear. It’s finally finished littering the road with zombies. Yaverts fires once, twice, three times and—click, click—his gun runs out of bullets. He swears loud enough to be heard over the rumbling train tracks. Before us remain a bunch of dazed dead-heads and one last pack of them near the perimeter, rising to their feet.
With a roar, Yaverts pushes Brom ahead. The giant stallion strains forward, bowling over lone zombies, his berserk rider yelling for still more speed. I can see the tendons in Yaverts’ neck, the rippling muscles in Brom’s hindquarters as the pair charges straight for the last wall of zombies.
And then they collide with the reeking barricade—forefeet kicking, pistol clubbing. There’s a muddled mash of crunch and snarl. Zombies are crashing aside, Brom is shrieking, staggering, falling, and Yaverts is launching forward, flipping out of his saddle and into the clenching air.
Chapter Forty-Six
Bentlam
Enemy hurdles through the path plowed by Brom, dodging, darting, and finally leaping over the last pile of groaning zombie flesh and out behind the ring of humming pylons, into the open desert. I’m on my feet in a second, running back to Yaverts. His body still lies a few yards from safety. Two particularly large zombies are already lurching at him, leering, groping. Clementine barks twice and they fall inanimate on top of our fallen companion.
“Yaverts!” I yell as I pull him from under the bodies. “Yaverts!”
Another few zombies stagger near. More are getting to their feet. At the road’s perimeter, a crowd quickly gathers, mindless eyes and mouths intent on us, inching forward past the smaller pylons’ barrier.
The man is so big, so heavy. I have to drag him with one hand while firing with the other. “Rickard!” I shout between shots. “Rickard. Get. Up!”
His eyes pop open. “Brom?” he says.
“Come on!”
All too slowly, he lumbers to his feet, looking this way and that while I blast two more zombies in the knees.
“Come on,” I say again, grabbing his arm and pulling him past the big pylons.
Yaverts shrugs free. “There he is,” he whispers, spotting his stallion not far away, next to Enemy. He runs over to the horses and places a relieved hand on Brom’s black mane. But when the stallion tosses his head in reply, he lets out a snort of pain. A ghastly white washes over Yaverts’ face. Brom tries to take a step, but staggers. That makes our search easy and we discover a deep bite above his left knee. I don’t know much about horses, but it doesn’t take an expert to tell that Brom’s in trouble.
Yaverts bows his head. He presses close to the stallion, whispering in his ear. “You were a beast back there, my friend. A noble beast.” He looks back at the ring’s perimeter, at the thousands of snarling dead-heads a mere hundred feet away, then ahead to Bentlam, gleaming in the afternoon sun. He begins stripping Brom of his bags and saddle, setting them on Enemy behind Jenny.
“What are you doing?” asks the little girl.
“You two go ahead for a while,” he says, sounding broken and tired. “I’ll catch up with you.”
"But—”
“Don’t worry,” he says, reaching into a bag for a box of shells. “Just take care of Brom’s things for a little while, all right?”
After a long moment’s stare, Jenny finally nods.
“Wait,” I say, retrieving the Bowie knife. I unscrew its pommel and slide out a glowing syringe. “I recharged this along the way. It worked on Enemy when she was nearly dead from running. Let me give it a try.”
At first, Yaverts only shakes his head, facing the brown earth. He stands that way for a minute, frowning, before he kicks a spindly patch of purple sage and shrugs in consent.
“Help me,” I say, stepping up to Brom. “Try to keep him calm.”
When we’ve given Brom the shot, we wait. I remember Enemy responding with instant energy, but Brom simply kneels down and flops onto his side. For a second I’m afraid we’ve made things worse. I’m afraid that Yaverts will flip. Instead, he smiles sadly and throws his hat on the ground.
“He’s out of pain, at least,” he says, sitting down beside the stallion.
An hour later and Brom’s breathing has become slow and ragged. It’s clear the chlorotein hasn’t worked. I can only guess it must be the nature of t
he wound. The substance can’t cure an infection.
Then it hits me.
“We can try one more thing.”
Yaverts raises his head. His eyes are rimy.
“I have another syringe, something I was told can bring back human Infects. We can try it on Brom.”
The big man only stares. For what feels like hours, he stares. “How many do you have?” he says at last.
“Two.”
He considers, opens his mouth, reconsiders, closes it, and shakes his head. “No. It’s too costly a gamble. We’ll need those.” Yaverts strokes Brom’s neck. His hand, I notice, is shaking. “You two go ahead. I’ll catch up to you.”
“Yaverts, you—”
“I’m in your debt for trying, Mr. Prose. I’m in your debt for offering your medicine. You may still be the biggest fool in the Territory, but you’re a consistent fool . . . and an admirable one. Now go. Please.”
So Jenny and I start west, walking beside Enemy across the bright flat of land toward Bentlam. We walk in silence, an unspoken agreement of mourning between us. Ahead, the city begins to come alive in our sight. We spot green peaks behind the walls, small mountains crowned with parks full of giant banners and fountains and colonnades. The famous bells of Bentlam carry across the cold air, reaching our ears with the riches of an elegant foreign tongue. I suddenly want to tell Jenny the stories I’ve heard: the way the bells chime in original song for every citizen’s birthday, the way the Festivals of the Seasons provide delicious year-round banquets for everyone, from the simplest child to the Mayor himself. I want to tell her about the heated fountain-slides that carry bathers in a silver rush from one hilltop to another. There is also the matter of elephant rides and elk races and the days when the whole city joins in dance beneath a ceiling of fireworks and symphony. But even though I want to tell her such stories, to savor the anticipation of what we’re about to see, to celebrate the good fortune that we’ve made it to the grandest city in the world . . . it feels wrong to speak, wrong to let the music of the nearing bells lead us to forget the agony that sounded from Brom when he tried to take a step. And so we walk on, silent, save for our boots crunching over pebbles, thistle, and sage.
Our footsteps vanish in the crack of a gunshot.
Enemy stops. So do we. Even the melodious bells seem to trip for a moment, pausing before ringing onward.
“Let’s wait for him,” says Jenny, taking my hand. We sit down in the dust, facing the city, and share some water and a can of salmon. We savor the salty familiarity of the fish and the novelty of the colors ahead, passing the spotting scope between us, commenting on the various insignias and crests fluttering on flags and emblazoned on tower sides and golden domes. There are birds, flames, trees, stars, animals, mountains, swords, flowers, trellis patterns—icons of every sort and stripe, all competing for splendor.
When we’ve counted over a hundred, Jenny sighs. “I don’t think I will like this place.”
That’s when we hear footsteps and turn to see Yaverts limping toward us. He must spot the concern in our eyes, because he lifts a finger to his lips and shakes his head. The message is clear. Brom is gone, both from the world, and from any mentioning.
Fine. Some folks can’t tolerate sympathy. But there’s one thing I can’t ignore.
“What’s wrong with your leg?”
I expect Yaverts to say, ‘twisted a knee’ or ‘landed on a rock,’ but instead he says: “One bit me.”
Jenny jumps up and rushes forward, tackling him with a hug. She’s already crying. I stand too, startled.
“They’ll never let an Infect get within a half mile of the city,” he continues. “You take Jenny to the orphanage. It won’t be hard to find. Her papers are folded in the front pocket of my bag. I’ll follow when I can.” He picks Jenny up and holds her.
“Well,” I say, batting the dust off my pants. “I guess you’ll be needing one of those two syringes then.”
I expect Yaverts to respond with a sardonic grin, or at least an ironic scowl. Instead, he simply holds out a tired hand. “Yes, please.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Goodbye, Jenny
The road to Bentlam soon smooths. Its paving tapers from porous and weathered to black and perfect. The weather also seems to warm. Overhead, cumulus clouds tower as though supporting a second tier of earth. They drift lazily about, making grand shadows and sudden sunbursts. With only a mile to go until the city gates, its walls loom as well, just as white and ponderous as the clouds. It’s an unbelievable sight. Literally. I don’t believe that what I’m seeing is real. It’s not the size of the city wall—the border’s was far taller. It’s not its pale splendor either. What I don’t believe is the faintly carved runes that begin to become visible on it. Giant words begin emerging on it in the faintest shades of gray, words from countless languages, mixing and crossing in visual splendor. Only a small portion of the words are in English, famous sayings from literature and scripture. I can only guess that the concepts they represent blend with the unknown wisdom around them as seamlessly as their characters do. I have heard of illuminated manuscripts. Once, in Houston, I saw a replica of the Book of Kells. But this is an illuminated wall—an illuminated city.
At a quarter mile to go, the blacktop road gives way to smooth marble. Enemy’s hooves begin to clop loudly and she whinnies. She must be excited, I think. But then she leaves the road and walks alongside it in the dirt. She glances back at me, eyes dubious, and veers north, as though suggesting we bypass the city altogether.
“Not yet,” I say, steering her back on course. But why? Why not take this chance and forget about the orphanage? Don’t orphanages exist to find good homes for kids? I may not be able to take care of Jenny, but I certainly can until I find her a loving home in Portland. From Jenny’s watchful look, I suspect she knows what I’m thinking. Then again, Rickard Yaverts isn’t the kind of man you want to double-cross. Sure, maybe Sanchez’s medicine won’t work. Maybe Yaverts will be a zombie by this time tomorrow. Maybe he’s already dead. Or maybe he knows he owes me one and will forget about the matter, letting Jenny disappear to Portland.
Somehow I doubt all of these scenarios. Most likely, Yaverts will be fine by this time tomorrow. If we ran for Portland, he would simply track us, catch us, kneecap me, call it mercy, call us even, and then take Jenny back to the orphanage.
“Sorry, Jenny,” I say, and judging from her the tightness around her eyes, I know she knows what I mean.
The front gate into Bentlam is enormous. It’s a single portcullis made of countless silver bars. It’s wide enough for a hundred people to walk through abreast, and twice as high. At its center is a double doored gate that a wagon could pass through. Two guards stand at either side, each wearing bright golden chain mail under crimson doublets, and holding tri-tipped spears. After checking Jenny’s papers and my badge, the guards usher us through the gates into a dark courtyard in between the front gate and a second gate just beyond it. We enter a small circular guardhouse where a nurse draws our blood for tests and another guard scans our bodies for weapons.
“We’ll need to keep these,” he says, holding up Clementine and my rifle before setting them down. “Oh. And this,” he adds, taking the Bowie knife from my bag.
I’m about to say ‘okay’ when an imaginary Yaverts taunts me: “You’re the Western Ranger, you idiot. Don’t let him take your weapons.”
“Then, no,” I say aloud in response to the imagining. The guard looks up, startled. It’s probably the first time he’s ever had anyone push back. For all I know, it’s the first time he’s ever experienced conflict.
“What?”
“I’m sorry, but no. I’m here as a Ranger of the Territory. I’ll need my weapons. All of them.”
“Sir, as far as weaponry is concerned, the city is medieval tech only. Allowing you to carry a firearm or a chloro—”
“How about your communication tech? Do you have a phone?”
He fidgets. “Yes, sir.”
“Then make a call.”
Ten minutes later and I’m entering Bentlam with Jenny, Enemy, and all of my weapons. The second set of gates swings open and we’re instantly awash in laughter—the laughter of old men jockeying at chess, of children racing across lawns, of lovers after sampling an immaculate kiss. And we’re awash in light—light filtered through splashing water and breezy leaves and reflected off polished stone. I can’t tell if we’ve entered a city or a park. Before us stretches a sweeping promenade of green grassy hills, long gleaming lakes, marble walkways, and white stone cottages with matching towers growing up out of the countryside. The prom is full of people, some dressed in exotic colors and cloaks, others barely dressed at all. Some are playing croquet or frisbee or soccer. Others are fishing or reading or soaking up sun.
The sign before us has three arms. To the left, The Seven Hills. To the right, The Golden Wood. And straight ahead, Pilot Butte to Old Towne. We take the straight path, winding up through the greenway, past a swathe filled with hundreds of white-robed martial arts dancers, past a golf course, and then beside a quarter mile grass track alive with racing horses and a roaring crowd. Enemy stops, insisting we watch her wild and beautiful kin as they run, their red, gold, black, and silver manes flashing in the sun. It takes a few tugs for her to leave the sight, but at last she obeys. The afternoon is fading and I want to find the orphanage before dark.
By the time the sun has settled above the mountains to the west, we’ve crested Pilot Butte. The city below is afire with stark reds, blues, and a ubiquitous rosy white. The Deschutes River meanders down its center, crossed by seven white-rocked bridges. The eastern part of the city appears rustic and warm, the buildings all stone and moss and rough cut wood. But to the west, across the river, the city takes on classical grandeur, with straight lines and clean contrasts between white marble and colorful banners.