Lost Roads (Benny Imura 7)

“What about you?” asked Benny, nodding to Ledger’s leg. He looked scared.

“Yeah, well, that’s the weird-news part,” said Ledger. “Doc took samples from Grimm’s spikes and every possible kind of sample from me. You don’t even want to know what indignities I was put to.”

“I agree,” said Urrea, “we don’t.”

“The bottom line is that there’s no trace at all of live parasites in any of my samples. Dead ones, sure, but no live ones.”

Flores looked at Morton, who was stunned.

“I… I don’t understand…,” breathed Morton. “How can that be?”

“Beats the heck out of me,” said Ledger. He nodded toward the corpse on the table. “Which brings me to the bad news. I’m beginning to have doubts that this joker here—and the other freak-jobs we tussled with today—are zoms at all.”

“But… they attacked us,” protested Gutsy.

“Sure, but that doesn’t automatically make them zoms. Maybe it’s some new mutation, or at least new to us.” He sighed. “And, frankly, I don’t remember asking for something else to worry about. We already have shamblers, ravagers, R3’s, half a dozen oddball variations out there in the Rot and Ruin—or in the Broken Lands, for you locals—and a bunch of animals going zom, too. I’m not digging this. I am officially weirded out.”

“Join the club,” said Alethea.

Ford raised a hand. “For the record, I’m way past being weirded and am into full freak-out.”

“Seconded,” said Urrea.

“Wait, wait,” said Gutsy, “does that mean these mutants—or whatever they are—aren’t contagious?”

“Not sure we can actually say that,” Flores said quickly. “All it means is that they can’t infect dogs, and that blood transferred from a secondary source like Grimm’s spikes isn’t directly infectious. We don’t know what an actual bite from these things may do.”

Ledger reached out with his cane and tapped the dead soldier’s foot. “Speaking of which, you run blood work on him yet?”

“I’ll start that when we finish here,” Flores responded.

“Maybe get in gear with that. I’d like to get my dog out of quarantine sooner than later. Pretty sure Ms. Gomez feels the same.”

43

TÉNÈBRES AND TRÓCAIRE MET WITH the other refugees who’d moved to New Alamo. There were twenty-six of them now.

Trócaire made food for everyone, and Ténèbres went around to make sure the shutters were closed and the drapes drawn.

The town was quieter now. No gunshots. Fewer screams.

They sat in silence for a long time, eating a simple meal, drinking glasses of rainwater. Looking at each other. Smiling and nodding as if they were engaged in a deep conversation.

It was Trócaire who broke the long silence.

“This town is going to fall apart,” he said.

The others nodded.

“We don’t want to die with it.”

More nods.

Outside they heard a man yelling, “He’s infected—he must have been bitten at the stable. Don’t let him near you! Mikey, get my ax!”

There were more yells, a scream, and then an awful sound like someone chopping wet, green wood. After that, the faintness of someone weeping.

“Let’s pray,” suggested Ténèbres, and they all held hands.