Z 2135 (3 page)

The Barrens

Liam’s eyes were closed, not that his drawn lids made any difference in the truck’s pitch-black hold.

For some reason, keeping his eyes closed made it easier for Liam to imagine the road back to Paradise. He had ridden in the back before, most times, and always pictured the trip as it happened. Judging by the length of time in the truck, number of times they had slowed, and what felt like their approximate speed, Liam figured they were already past the outskirts. They had already driven through the area where bird of paradise flowers that gave the camp its name sprouted in patchy clusters, through the larger bushes and widest swath, then farther to where they stopped entirely, surrendering to a small walled camp. One of the oldest and strongest in the City 6 section of The Barrens, it was filled with tiny homes, and nearly 100 campers—twice as many as Forsythia, the nearest camp, and nearly three times as many as Buckeye. Despite the camp’s high walls and more permanent seeming exterior, there was nothing in Paradise that couldn’t be torn down and loaded for flight in minutes.

As always, the truck idled outside The Walls. Usually after a mission it would be driven to maintenance at the camp’s rear, then emptied and scrubbed. Not today. The back rolled up and Shaw said nothing, just turned and walked toward the main gate after Daemon. Avery waved at them from the top left tower, and Bobby from the right; then the Paradise doors parted. Liam and Ana stepped through the gate, a beat behind Daemon and Shaw.

Oli already looked pissed, and he didn’t even know anything.

“No trucks?” Oli asked.

Daemon said, “It was a trap, Father. There was only one truck, and it was filled with …
them
. Zombies.” Daemon said the last with a snarl.

“One truck?” Oli spat, then took a step closer to Daemon. “When did you know that, son: before or after you laid the strip?”

“Before,” Daemon held his father’s stare. “One truck seemed easy pickings.”

“Son, I know for a goddamned fact that you are
not
this stupid. So, ya wanna tell me what in the fuck possessed you to act like an idiot? Where the hell is everyone else?”

“We lost them, Sir,” Daemon said, still holding his father’s stare.

“Lost them? How many?”

“Eight.”

Oli was boiling lava. Liam couldn’t even guess what was next. He always ripped into the guys, but it was
usually
good natured, and those times almost funny. But there was nothing humorous about Oli when he was angry. Eight men was a big loss. Liam thought of all the old movies he’d seen in the arcade, with men wearing faces like Oli’s: a cop waiting to inform a man that his wife has died in a car accident, a doctor informing a patient he’s terminal, a uniformed man passing a picket fence so he can knock on the red door of a white house and tell a soldier’s woman she’d gone from wife to widow.

Oli’s anger simmered to a look of relief as he slapped a hand on his son’s back. The strength of Oli’s voice could be counted on as much as anything in Paradise. Yet it cracked as he said, “You could’ve been bitten, Son.”

“He was,” Shaw offered.

Idiot.

Oli’s hand fell from his son’s shoulder. He took a step back, searching Daemon’s body with his eyes—extra time at his neck, shoulders, and torso before scanning the rest of his body—finally settling on the horror at his ankle.

Most of the camp was gathering toward the entrance, and there was a physical wave of tension radiating from them as they took in Oli’s demeanor. Liam stared like everyone else. He could practically feel Avery and Bobby looking down from the watchtowers behind him. Same with Lincoln and Maddie on the other side, probably peering through their binoculars. He could feel Ana’s heart racing as she stood beside him, waiting for the horror sure to unfold no matter what Oli decided. The question was: Would Oli break rules for his kin, or would Daemon get the same ultimatum as everyone else?

Everyone knew that the virus meant certain death for nearly all of those bitten, but it didn’t work on a definitive timetable. Most often, the infection stayed dormant for days, even weeks.

Sometimes, infection took hold more quickly.

Because of the uncertainty, Oli wouldn’t allow the infected anywhere near Paradise. The bitten or scratched were cast out immediately, or—if they preferred—given a mercy bullet in the forehead, since most people agreed that the slow fade to zombie was worse than death. Not everyone chose mercy, though. Some people preferred to haunt The Barrens, clinging to life no matter what form it took.

Oli didn’t hesitate. His eyes were glassy and wet, but his gun was already pulled from his holster and greased in his palm. “Well, Son, I’m sure you’ve had plenty of time to think on this during the ride over. You in or out?”

Liam had spent months thinking Daemon was a dick, and wishing he would show a bit of diffidence. Now, seeing Daemon’s humility as he faced his father, Liam wanted to break down and weep.

“You’ll have to get a mark if you choose to be banished,” Shaw again offered what no one was asking for.

Daemon said, “I don’t wanna turn,” holding his eyes straight and chin high.

“Well then,” Oli nodded, losing his first tear, silent as it cut his cheek into two dry patches before splashing the dirt. Daemon started to kneel.

Oli said, “Not here,” then pulled his son up by the collar and gently led him toward the gate’s entrance. He called for a blanket—like he always did for a mercy killing—then told his boy to kneel.

Liam was sure Oli would ask someone else to do it, especially once his hand started shaking like it was about to lose the gun, but Oli wasn’t the sort to lose composure or ask another man to finish his work. So after another second of shaking he said, “Sorry about this, Son,” and filled Paradise with thunder.

Liam’s insides were frozen. He turned to Ana; she was crying. He grabbed her hand. “Sorry,” he said softly, squeezing.

She squeezed back, then whispered. “I can’t believe how fast that all happened.”

“Better fast than slow,” he whispered back. “No surprise that Daemon would rather die here, either.”

Ana said nothing, and looked near catatonic. “You OK?” he asked, squeezing her hand harder.

She let it go.

“No,” Ana sniffed.

She turned her head and her eyes were hard, like they were when she didn’t want to talk. Like every time their conversation walked into an ugly yesterday: Chelle and him, her father, Adam, Charlotte, West Village.

Duncan approached the pair from behind, his abrupt voice like a salve, “Going to be awhile before this one settles. We lost a lot today.”

Liam turned to Duncan. “What do you think? What’s Oli going do?” After barely a pause he added, “How bad is this going to get?”

“I don’t know,” Duncan shrugged. “He just lost his son, so it might send him into the depths of despair, in which case, he’ll need me to guide him through it. Or, he might use this as a driver, instead. Remember, it was Oli who single-handedly went into City 5 and took down an entire City Watch squad after they nabbed Daemon.”

Liam nodded, but wasn’t so sure Oli would rebound so quickly this time. His face must have betrayed that thought.

“I’ll talk to him, and make sure everything’s OK,” Duncan promised, and Liam felt a little of his fear lift away. Oli confided in few, but for some reason, he and Duncan had hit it off from the day they hit Paradise. It was almost as if the men were long lost friends, or brothers. Liam wasn’t surprised, as Duncan was one of those people you instantly trusted: the right blend of intelligence, compassion, and authority. As such, his words carried weight with the leader of Paradise.

Duncan had once said that Oli was a man who needed an ear. Duncan was that and so much more. Oli had been corked for too long. Duncan showed him how to open the bottle, and trust was instant between them. Duncan never said what Oli confessed, and wouldn’t, and it was that knowledge that made Liam even more confident in believing the old man could make things OK.

Oli pointed his gun at the sky and swiveled his barrel—the usual sign for closing the gate. He walked by everyone, his jaw set. Some of the fear returned to Liam: maybe Duncan was wrong about Oli this time—he looked like he wanted to hunt with his hands.

Liam wondered out loud, “Think maybe you should talk to him now?”

In his softest voice, Duncan said, “Not yet. Grief is like fear, Liam, it makes people act trapped. Oli needs time. Not a lot, but enough to keep him from lashing.”

“Hey, guys—” Ana cut in, but didn’t finish her sentence. She nodded toward the gate, which was slowly reopening after only just closing.

The camp was silent as a courier entered on horseback.

“What do you think it is?” Ana said as Shaw approached the rider.

“I don’t know,” Duncan said. His words fell slowly. The courier followed Shaw’s finger to the three of them. “But I think we’re about to find out.”

Liam’s heartbeat sped. A courier wasn’t looking to give them good news; that simply wasn’t their lot. Something was wrong.

Or something had happened.

He thought of Ana’s brother, Adam, and hoped his hunch was mistaken.

The courier approached and smiled. “Anastasia Lovecraft?” he asked.

“Yes?” she said, looking as nervous as Liam felt.

“You have been summoned by Sutherland. He’s waiting for you at Hydrangea.”

Ana looked at Liam, uncertain.

The courier then added, “He’s waiting with your father.”

The Barrens

The woman’s name was Katrina. She finally told it to Jonah after her horse had carried them for what he guessed was 10 miles toward Hydrangea, where Sutherland, a man Jonah knew only by name, waited to speak with him. Considering that they were offering to reunite him with his daughter, Jonah would’ve agreed to meet anyone.

Through those first 10 miles—and every mile after—Jonah was confused, mind swimming through fog as his weakened arms barely clung to Katrina’s waist.

Jonah was an excellent tracker, probably as good as anyone born behind The Walls, but between Katrina’s meandering path and his too airy head, Jonah couldn’t keep track of where they’d been.

He looked down at the canteen of water, provided by Katrina.

“You drugged me didn’t you?” he said.

“Just a little something to make sure you don’t remember the way.”

“You ask me to trust you enough to ride out to God knows where, and you drug me? How do you know I won’t just stab you in the back right now?”

“Because you’ll want the antidote.”

“Antidote?” Jonah said, wanting to stab her.

“Yeah. Don’t worry, though—we’ve plenty of time to reach camp. But … do anything stupid, and, well, let’s just say you won’t live to see your daughter.”

Jonah knew it was petty, but he was without any weapon save for his tongue. “So, do you handle your leader’s entire social calendar?”

“Sutherland’s not my leader,” Katrina said. “He’s
the
leader.”

“Not mine,” Jonah leaned to Katrina’s side and peered into the distance, trying to determine if the trees on either side of the boulder were the same ones that had been there the last three times they trotted by the zigzagging strip of river. Jonah would swear that, yes, they absolutely were, except the bluffs rolling into meadow on the right seemed new.

“We’ll see,” Katrina said.

“What do you mean,
we’ll see?
” She was pissing him off with her knowing way and infuriating quiet. She was more than a courier, though what, she wouldn’t say. “I don’t have a leader on either side of The Walls.”

“Sutherland is the leader out here, and the only one who can bring down The State. If you’re not with The People’s Party, you’re with The State.”

This sort of “us or them” sounded a lot like every other so-called movement and cult Jonah had ever known. The sort that The State squashed for breakfast.

Jonah would have rattled questions one at a time if he had the breath, or believed it wouldn’t be wasted. Moreover, he felt oddly obedient—probably from the poison—on the back of a horse, behind a courier who wasn’t a courier, on the way to maybe …
please, please, please be true
… see Anastasia.

Jonah looked up, for a minute having no idea who he was, or where he was going. The woman with him was a stranger. He stared at the back of her head, trying to remember her name, only vaguely knowing the beast below him was a horse. Then he remembered
Katrina
, and trees cleared in the distance along with some of his thinking.

He had been drugged, just a bit, but enough to confuse him. Minutes, trees, hours, wrong turns: all soup. Jonah wasn’t surprised by the disorientation; its steady depth intrigued him. He didn’t even mind it, feeling oddly safe with Katrina.

They stopped.

In front of them, a bridge. In front of the bridge, a horde of zombies. Jonah expected Katrina to kick the horse into running, maybe find a route around.

Instead she hopped off.

Jonah wanted to jump from the horse and help, but he was too dizzy, fatigued to near collapse. He also wasn’t exactly sure what she was doing in the first place.

Katrina screamed, drawing the zombies to her. Two bluish silver blades slid from beneath her jacket’s cuffs, extensions of her arms. She didn’t wait for the zombies to come to her, instead charging in and going to work: slicing, gutting, and tearing them to pieces in a crimson ballet.

He reached for his crossbow, but couldn’t find it.

She took it?

Didn’t matter. Jonah was going nowhere. He could barely focus, much less help. She didn’t need it anyway.

Katrina finished off the zombies, and returned to Jonah.

“Why didn’t you go around them?” Jonah asked as she rubbed her blades with a soft cloth from her pocket. He thought the blue hummed as she rubbed it, but that might have been dizziness, fatigue, or simply his imagination.

The blades retracted into her gauntlets. She said, “Because now I can sleep better at night. If I leave ’em undead, I’m likely to think of them when I should be snoring. Hard enough to sleep as it is. Besides, there’s no better exercise. Killing dead when you see them keeps you ready.”

Sleep wasn’t Jonah’s problem. Even as she got back on the horse, Jonah was dipping in and out of the blur. This happened a few times until he finally surfaced, clearer than ever. The air smelled crisp, and he could feel every prickle. His skin was tighter, his core somehow fuller. He smelled lilac, though that was impossible.

He asked Katrina why he felt better. “Because you’re taken care of,” she said, patting her saddlebag.

“Wait … you gave me the antidote?” he asked, not remembering drinking anything.

Jonah thought he could sense her smiling. She said, “Yes, about an hour ago. In between your naps.”

She fell quiet after that, almost reverential, even after Jonah soiled her silence with more questions—which she ignored. Finally he fell quiet too. They rode like that for a while until they reached sweeping acres—maybe miles—of breathtaking hydrangea.

They stopped among the deepest eggplants and auburns, crimson on blush, cream kissing green and lavender.

“Where’s the village?” he asked.

The ground answered with a mechanical grinding.

Jonah looked down—they were on a hidden platform covered in soil and grass. The horse whinnied. Katrina rubbed its neck and said, “It’s OK, girl.” She turned to Jonah. “Welcome to Hydrangea.”

Jonah waited in a room similar to the ones in the train station where Egan had held him last winter. It was long and narrow, with several benches lined along one wall. A table ran across the opposite wall. Jonah imagined it once was fringed with computers. But that time was gone and now there was nothing, save for stacks of books and folders of papers. Though he’d only seen a few tunnels on his way to the room, Jonah was sure they were in another abandoned train station.

This one was in much better condition, however. Well lit and freshly painted, as if care was given to the upkeep. Jonah wondered what powered the lights.

After waiting awhile, the door opened and Katrina walked in. He had stood up when he heard the handle turning, but now she asked Jonah to sit.

The way she asked, and stood between him and the door, Jonah felt like Katrina was protecting whoever was entering the room. Like he might attack them.

His heartbeat sped, and he began to suspect he’d been lied to. Ana wasn’t here after all. Katrina lied because he wouldn’t have come otherwise.

And now he was about to meet that lie’s architect.

The man stepped through, a 50-something-year-old with long red hair and a scruffy red beard. Though Jonah had only seen him on the Reels, he would remember him anywhere.

A long time ago—Jonah was tempted to call it a lifetime ago—he remembered an uprising The State had brutally suppressed. Normally, such revolts fell into two categories: those led either by angry militants or by oddly charismatic cult-like leaders. Of the two, cultists were most dangerous because their followers were often fanatical.

One of The State’s primary directives—for obvious reasons—was the early extermination of emerging cults. All were considered a threat to the general welfare. A cancer. The same sort of cancer that started the Original Plague. Public meetings, no matter what kind of nut job group was holding them, were legal. But City Watch always had spies or used the many surveillance options available to make sure seeds of dissent never sprouted too tall.

The worst cult Jonah had ever heard of was the one that called itself The Children of The Last Light, and preached some weird mystical pseudo religious end-of-the-world nonsense.

The group was engineered by a guy named Dennis Weaver, a cook in City 3. The man was unique looking with his long red hair and beard. In addition to being a cook, he was a church pastor who had somehow spread his message via sects in each of the cities. Weaver was the son of a minister, and claimed ancestry to Jesus. He preached peace, according to reports, but then one of his parishioners squealed to a Watcher that Weaver was stashing weapons and planning some big attack on City officials.

City 3 Watch moved in.

City Watch ordered the Reels to report Weaver as insane and that he was actively plotting an attack. It was a lie, but a necessary one to kill the cult before it could do any real damage. Anything to protect The State—the motto Jonah had lived for so long.

Jonah heard that when they raided Weaver’s compound, beneath the bowels of City 3, they found an army’s worth of guns. He had rations, vouchers for food, and supplies across all tiers. Additionally, they found links to agents who had infiltrated the government. It was the largest a cult had ever grown in City Watch history, and right beneath the observant all-seeing City Watch eye.

Weaver was executed in some of the most watched Darwins ever. Everyone knew the round was probably rigged, but nobody cared. After The Games, The State mandated harsher laws for public gatherings, and required all City Watchers to take a new class called “Birth of a Cult,” which gave historical accounts of cult leaders going back before Charles Manson, though he was the first figure they spent any time on.

And now, standing before him, was Weaver, the cult leader he saw die in The Darwin Games.

“Hello, Mr. Lovecraft, I’ve been dying to meet you,” Weaver said, smiling as he stepped forward and extended his hand.