Benny drifted over.
Grimm lifted his head and studied Benny the way Morgie Mitchell used to study a grilled flank steak. Joe was hunched over his food, shoveling eggs into his mouth. He didn’t look up to see who was approaching.
“Buzz off.”
Benny stopped. “What?”
Joe raised his head only enough to glare at Benny over the top of the sunglasses, which had slid halfway down his nose. His eyes were bloodshot and bleary. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Mind if I sit down?”
“Yes.”
“What is it about today? Is it Tell Benny Imura to Go Away Day?”
“Sounds good to me. And in the spirit of that . . . go away.”
“No, I don’t think I will.
” He took another step closer. Grimm gave a warning growl so deep and low that it seemed to vibrate up through the floor. “Is he going to bite me?”
“Pretty good chance of it,” admitted Joe.
“I’ll risk it.”
Joe leaned his forearms wearily on the table. “What’s your deal, kid? Does ‘buzz off’ have a different meaning with your generation?”
“No. I get it. You want me to leave. It’s just that I’m not going to.”
Benny lowered himself onto a chair. The ranger watched him with a kind of bleak fascination.
“You’re a weird kid,” said Joe. “Most people go on the assumption that Grimm would gladly have them for lunch. You don’t seem to think so. I’m not sure if you’re a good judge of character or a total moron.”
“Jury’s out on that at the moment,” said Benny.
“Okay . . . what’s on your mind?” Joe sighed. “And keep your voice down. My head hurts.”
Benny peered at him. “Are you drunk?”
“No, I’m hungover. There’s a distinct difference. One is fun; the other is a whole lot less fun. Right now I am not having any fun, and you’re not helping.”
“Here’s a thought—why not not get drunk?”
Benny was not a fan of drunks. Alcoholism and heavy drinking had been serious problems in all the Nine Towns ever since First Night. There were a lot of excuses, of course. Every adult had lost someone during those dreadful days. The apparent apocalypse had burned the faith out of a lot of people—faith in their religions, their ideologies, their expectations, their government, and their own dreams. The persistence of the zombie plague created tremendous paranoia. The world seemed to be ending, so why bother? Why not get drunk? Why not blur all the sharp edges? It saddened Benny as much as it disgusted him, because it was an acceptance of defeat. There was no fight left in it. There was no attempt to get back up and shake a fist at the universe and try again. One of Tom’s favorite martial arts sayings was: “Fall down seven times, get up eight.” Yet it seemed that some people just kept wanting to fall back down.
Joe sipped his coffee. “Exactly when did it become your business what I do?”
“You’re a soldier, right? A ranger? Aren’t you supposed to be a role model?”
“Wow, you’re an obnoxious SOB today. You have a double helping of cranky flakes for breakfast?”
“No. I spent the morning down in the dungeon under the blockhouse looking at my best friend, who seems to be turning into a zombie.”
“Ah,” said Joe. “Yeah, that’ll do it. I saw him yesterday. Shame.”
“It’s a ‘shame’? That’s the best you got? A shame? I thought those scientists were supposed to cure him.”
“First,” said Joe, pointing at Benny with his coffee cup, “stop shouting. You’re hurting my head. Second, what do you think they are over there? Wizards? You think they can wave a magic wand and make everything all better?”