Lost Roads (Benny Imura 7)

He gaped at her, eyes wide, fear sweat beading his forehead. “Even though… ?”

“Even though,” she said firmly.

When she’d drained him of every possible detail, Gutsy folded the map carefully and tucked it in a pocket of her fishing vest.

“Gutsy,” said Morton as she turned to go. She lingered in the open doorway as he spoke. “If there had been some other way…”

She said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and now the tears fell down his bruised cheeks.

“Sure,” she said, and left.

She went home and made thoughtful selections of weapons and equipment, knowing that anything she brought would have to be abandoned because of contamination. Gutsy wasn’t sentimental about tools, though. Practicality was often a shield against small hurts.

Then she kissed Sombra and hugged him for a long time. The coydog wagged his crooked tail and whined a little. Gutsy slipped out of the house, qui

et as a shadow, went to a section of wall that was deep in shadows, and climbed it, taking her time, making no sound, being sly and careful.

Out in the Broken Lands, she avoided los muertos as diligently as she did the roving patrols of town guards.

None of the things she did were, in her estimation, stupid. Risky, yes, and possibly suicidal, but not stupid. So, Gutsy wasn’t breaking her word. Or so she convinced herself.

50

IN NEW ALAMO, ALICE CHUNG returned home from helping deliver food to some old folks. She was bone-tired and felt icky. The thought of a hot bath, food, and maybe sitting up reading in the living room with her mom sounded like heaven.

The house was dark, though, with all the lights out. Mom must have gone to bed early. Probably worn out from pain. Those broken fingers looked better today, but the hand was still really swollen. And her mom seemed to be running a fever, too.

She tapped lightly on her mother’s bedroom door. “Mom… ?”

There was a faint rustle of bedclothes, then a murmur. “Alice?”

“I just got home. You okay? Can I get you anything? You want some tea?”

A pause. Then, “No. I’m fine.”

“You sure? It’s no problem.”

Another pause. Longer this time. “I just need to sleep.”

Alice stood in the hallway, fingers touching the door, waiting for more. But there was only silence in the house. She imagined she could feel pain in the air—Mom’s physical pain, and the deeper pain of having lost family and friends in the attacks.

Alice leaned her forehead against the door for a long moment.

“Love you, Mom,” she said softly.

Then she went to heat water for her bath.

51

IT TOOK THREE CAREFUL HOURS to reach the area near the base. It wasn’t the distance that took so much time, but the staying safe. The darkness was alive with shambling creatures. And with faster ones who snarled and howled and tore at the shadows with teeth and fingernails as if trying to consume the night itself.

Gutsy found a good hiding place a mile from the base, behind the rusted hulk of a Mister Softee truck. She shrugged out of her backpack, removed the hazmat suit, used moonlight to double-check that it was still intact, then pulled it on. She very carefully pulled off strips of duct tape and wound them around the seals at her ankles, wrists, and throat. She’d brought a lanyard to hang the tape roll around her neck. It was the fastest way to seal a tear, Morton had told her. Practical. Then she slipped her vest back on and buttoned it. Last thing she put on was the backpack, which was now empty. The contents—water, some food, and a first-aid kit—were left by the truck. Next to them was a spray bottle of bleach and another of a harsh antibacterial she’d taken from Morton’s lab.

Gutsy left her shelter and moved with great care, watching and listening before drifting from one piece of cover to the next. When she did move, it was in imitation of the slow, awkward manner of the dead. Los muertos were rarely triggered by their own kind. Up close, their aggression was nullified by some chemical signature. She used to think it was the stench of rotting flesh, but now she knew better. Morton had told her that the active parasites in the living dead gave off a smell that imitated that of rot. It was the parasite protecting itself from other infected hosts. In a weird way, Gutsy admired that. She knew of plants and trees that used chemicals to discourage insects. Some insects did it too, and since the Lucifer 113 plague was made up mostly from several genetically modified insects, this was a smart design choice.

Motion, though, was different. The dead tended to react to certain kinds of motion. Anything quick, anything that moved with steadiness or speed caused the monsters to want to hunt. Anything that was sluggish or that moved with a broken rhythm was much less of a trigger. Gutsy had long suspected this, but Nix said that Benny’s brother, Tom, had taught them to move in ways that kept the automatic response from kicking in.