Bits & Pieces (Benny Imura 5)

Fire purifies.

It ends.

It releases.

As he walked away, he wept.

He walked all night and well into the morning. He outwalked the smoke. He wondered how far he would have to go to outwalk the memories.

He was sure that there was no number for it.

As he walked—that day and over the many days that followed—he wondered who he was now. He was no longer the quiet, gentle, mildly funny and always agreeable hotel manager he had been for eleven years. He was no longer that good man. He was no longer a husband, son, father, or brother.

He had burned everyone he ever loved.

A good man did not do that kind of thing.

A good man does not slaughter his way out of town and then light a blaze that threatens to burn down heaven itself.

No.

He was not that good man anymore.

So who was he?

It was a question he could not answer.

Not yet.

He walked on, heading south and east. Toward the center of the state, toward the mountains. Maybe he could find somewhere where he could be a good man again.

Maybe.

But where?

3

Tom Imura

(Five months after First Night)

Tom heard the sounds of killing long before he smelled the blood.

He knew that this was killing and not just fighting. The screams told him that much. Men didn’t scream like that unless they were dying.

The woods were dark, and he knew how to move through them without making a sound. His older brother, Sam, had taught him that. Sam, who was almost twenty years older than Tom, had been a top special forces soldier, and he’d taught Tom a lot of useful skills. Tom, a change-of-life baby for their mother, had idolized Sam and hung on

every word, paid close attention to every lesson. He wanted to be Sam.

As he crept through the forest toward the fight, Tom wondered for the millionth time where Sam was. There had been one desperate phone call from his brother on the night it all fell apart. Sam had warned him to take care of the family.

After that, nothing.

Not a word.

Tom was sure that if Sam were alive, he would have found a way to make it home. But First Night was five months ago. The world had ended. Sam had never come home.

The sounds were close now, and Tom slowed as he approached the wall of trees, beyond which was a clearing. He left his sword sheathed and his gun holstered. He wasn’t coming to join the fight. Not yet. Tom had already learned hard lessons about assuming that every fight was a human defending against the living dead.